Where are we going and why am I in this handbasket?

First off, I feel like a heel. I missed my oldest friend Lois' birthday. I got all caught up with the arrival of a new baby. What a dope. That reminds me.Speaking of heels, I think I should duly advise you, in order that you may begin preparations for the intervention, that something happened roughly having to do with heels (wedges, specifically) as well as flats.

Not even aware that I was teetering above a well-known and long-avoided abyss, I just fell in. Hell, I walk past it on the village green in Bedford all the time; all kelly green and navy predictability, you would think I would know it in darkness. All Mer T and Tizzie. All bridge club at 10 am. All the things we said we would never be as young girls; Ironically, we said things like that when we were hanging around clandestinely on the 9th at Bedford Golf and Tennis until the wee hours of the morning decked out in little plaid shorts, gently worn Polo's, and sun washed Tretorns.

Look here, Readers: It's one thing to be old school prep, and a whole other thing to be an old prep - you follow? Could I, still young and vibrant have crossed already? And how do I reclaim myself?

I would like to advance the theory, before I come clean to the world, that quite possibly, we were already there. Which is here. Which would make this confession moot and quite unlike a confession after all and more like a foregone conclusion of a story begun long ago in Bedford, where were had no choice but to be brought up and therefore, simultaneously brought in, to the abyss that is this story of fashion (but deeper, older, and more scarring than just the foolish threads) that I am hedging in telling, or trying to prematurely become an apologist for, or simply trying to say: It happened to me and it's not all bad. I am hoping to confuse you with run-ons and verbosity... but anyway, maybe there was little real difference between us and the old girls at St. Matthews on Sundays and we never knew, or could not face that we knew. Moving on...

I happily subscribe to The Prepster, for reminders of our old Bedford which is normally more entertaining than instructive for me. In reading along though, I remembered that I needed to order a new tote from LL Bean. Not the monogrammed canvas one this time, I like the madras (the embroidered dogs were cute but too... something). Okay. No problem there:




LL Bean, Madras Patchwork Tote

But then, this happened:

Sperry, Original Southshore Wedge

And the below, as you know, had already occurred, which is totally fine because they are awesome and unexpected with my dark wash wide leg Sevens, a white starched shirt from Thomas Pink, and an Hermes scarf. Right on....

Ferragamo, Bow.

But I should have sensed a change when a bob-coiffed and bow-headband-wearing matron passed by me at Saks while I was trying these on and smiled as she said, "Rite of passage..."
Whoa, Sister, back off, I'm not your bridge partner!

But I could not avoid the glaring truth before me as I made that last purchase click for the Sperrys: A singular instance is one thing - all things, especially prep, being fine in moderation. But a confluence of all three point to something terrifying and in these parts we like to call the thing: Grandmother.

Lordy, I am still my early thirties. It was hardly more than five minutes ago that I was arguing over three different black Pantones as a merchant in a couture house. Slap me, God knows I need it.