My husband is a school librarian and a veritable expert in children’s literature. He runs a book club business here in LA and is working on launching a children’s lit blog. He is one of the most creative, intelligent and idealistic people I have ever known.
He is also absolutely the most dedicated:
Today was “Celebrity Day” at his school and he spent the entire day as Slash. Dear Husband: you’re the best and I love you. (The fact that this week alone required us both to wear costumes to our jobs may explain why we have a plastic tub full of “funny hats” in our garage.)
In related news, that skull scarf he’s wearing belongs to me. It was on my Christmas wish list and it was $6 on Amazon. The last time I wore it around these parts, someone I know told me she had the same one. The difference? Hers was Alexander McQueen and cost her $295. (The other difference? Hers was chiffon and mine is polyester, which is a total non-issue for me, as I tend to keep my neck away from open flames as a matter of course anyway.)
I’ve lived the last eight and half years of my life in Los Angeles, and I have yet to understand the obsession with designer products. I can’t even count the number of times someone has complimented my outfit and then asked me, “Who makes your sweater/bag/shoes?!?” only to be shocked when I reply with glee, “Forever 21/H&M/Old Navy!” There is something so totally satisfying to me about dressing myself like a human being without spending an obscene amount of money that I can’t imagine the thrill of owning something with a fancy label on it could compare. I have a few nice things (like an incredible leather jacket my husband got me for an anniversary), but for the most part, as a person who is likely to spill more coffee on my pants than I manage to get into my mouth, I am way more comfortable and far less anxious wearing items that can be destroyed and then easily replaced.
(Full disclosure: I don’t like wearing thrift shop clothes. I always imagine them on dead people and it ruins the experience.)