Thursday, January 5, 2006

I'm touchy

I wish this were me, but it is not. Photo from Flickr user dovima_is_devine_II.


I am a fabric freak.

I own multiple shirts that are hideous, but soft. I recently dumped an entire day`s salary on an Urban Outfitters blazer because the velvet was so luscious, it felt like it was making out with my fingers when I touched it.

My bed is a nest of satin, fur, suede, goose down, fleece and crisp cotton; I couldn`t pick just one. Or even three.

I once brought a handbag into said bed and slept with it on my cheek because the leather felt like butta. I later caught myself walking down the street fondling the purse and murmuring sweet nothings to it. I caressed it until it fell apart, and then I mourned.

Some people are crazy over colors or scents or eras. My style revolves largely around touch.
This has been a life-long thing. I still go to the same family doctor in Loveland that I went to as a kid. When I walk in the door, the nurses and receptionist start laughing.

It`s always the same: “Hey, aren`t you the girl who used to wear slips and petticoats on the outside of her clothes?”

Yes. That is me. Don`t make fun. Slips are silky.

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