Spent a week in The Land of Men in Suits, also known as our nation’s capital city. It is filled with men in lovely, fitted suits and-gasp-beautiful shoes. At times, a girl would have to stop, mouth agape, just to take it all in. Or click her heels together, “It does exist. It does exist.”
In The Dale, men are decidedly casual, sometimes dreadfully so. The women of The Dale wear cute shoes, dress up, and follow trends. Men? Not so much. If only they knew the power.
The shoes are most striking. A particular pair of two-strap buckle brogues in cognac were so lovely I openly stared. Enough so that the gentlemen glanced toward his feet wondering what on earth was the matter.
“Love your shoes,” I say with a smile. He has no idea my actual level of appreciation for his making the world a better place.
“Thanks?” he said. I could hear the question mark.
Unless they were jogging, as in really running, not a sneaker in sight. No black tennies or sneakers posing as a real shoe. The way God intended. Not even with jeans. Had I entered the land of grown-up boys? No one had the answer. Middle Chicken, who law schooled there and was my guide, barely noticed. Who raised her? She did note that women were not wearing bad shoes. They were, in fact, wearing commuter shoes and would change into heels at the office. I breathed a sigh of relief at that news.
Other observations in the DC? It’s humid. Truly, it’s a toss-up of what’s hotter. Ninety degrees with high humidity or 110 on the surface of the sun. No. It’s not. Humid is worse. I prefer my clothes don’t reveal the topographical map of my stomach and my hair doesn’t grow three sizes each time I step out of doors.
Venturing to The White House, The Kennedy Center, Watergate, and Georgetown with GrandBear 4, I allow myself the whimsy of moving there. I am whisked back to girlhood with my father explaining Watergate and knowing I wanted to be Woodward or Bernstein. Either one. But a girl. The girl that breaks the story. The Washington Post held this girl’s heart for a long time.
Katharine Graham served as further inspiration presiding over the scandal and becoming the first woman elected to the board of the AP, making lemonade after her father initially gave the family newspaper to her husband. Asshat.
Who could resist a rowhouse on the Potomac, walking to Levain for a baguette slathered in butter and jam. Yes, it comes that way. People lose their minds over the cookies, but the hidden secret is the baguette.
Dreams dashed. Alas. I did not become an award-winning political journalist with an intellectual social circle, a who’s who of colleagues, and the proper appreciation for a well-set table.
Instead, I write snarky opinions with a Skittish Tabby. Oh, the sacrifice. Pfft.
The Duchess Diaries 