Second Hand, Second Thoughts

Now is the harvest time in Naples. People are leaving. They drop their old furniture, their bent golf clubs, their bad shopping decisions, the embarrassing cruise wear off at the Salvation Army, St. Vincent De Paul, the Goodwill. People have died. Their children come on their kids' spring breaks and dump their mother's Ferragamo shoes and St. John Knits, their father's golf shirts, their parents' hideous coffee tables off at the Goodwill. There is a line at the drop-off area four cars deep--a great tide of pilly sweaters, weighty beaded gowns, and Duty Free sunglasses, yes, but also the fur coats and Bally loafers, and Lilly Pulitzer capris pants. And we, of the good eye, run through the aisles piling up the cashmere bounty. Perhaps I've grown too confident in my eye, however--picking out the Louis Vuitton purse, the Gaultier blazer, the Gucci loafers from 10 paces--thinking I can tell from the soft buttery feel of the lambskin purse that it's an authentic Ch...

The sidesaddle skirt I've been thinking about the whole notion of "living authentically" lately. But not in a "to-thine-own-self-be-true" kind of way, which would be the wise direction. No. More of a hat-goes-with-the-shoes-which-goes-with-the-house-which-goes-with-the-sidesaddle kind of way. After 20 years of living in Florida, I finally looked around and decided that, as a matter of fact, I don't give a shit about palm trees. I don't look good in Lilly Pulitzer. Or Patagonia. Or pants with little golf clubs embroidered all over them. I get seasick. I freckle. I just don't dig sand. So I bought this farm in Kentucky last year. And immediately started to think about style, of course. Because of course there is "People of Wal-Mart," which, while jaw-droppingly hilarious, makes you think of that time you were fixing a toilet and you were just going to run down to Wal-Mart for this little, stupid but necessary emergency part, (a...