Masquerading like some sort of villain... The Lollipop Girl.
Organizing a hoard of Louis Vuitton bags reminiscent of a passenger boarding the Titanic, I subsequently stiletto-stomped my way through the airport… my least favorite locale. The multitudes of people spatter together a freakish rendition of business, pleasure, and necessity. A communal jungle of paperbacks, multicolored Blackberrys, laptops, iPods, and diverse banter illuminate hastened boarding calls as a modicum of boredom weaves the metaphorical features of departure gates, all passengers all rows… terminal. Without defense to unwarranted luggage cruelty, enthusiasm flatlines.
I do it for love... but ah, the joys of travel.
From the stomach of flight, the world below is silent while conversation nebulizes and then bounces from either side of the oatmeal colored aircraft like a ping-pong ball caught in tilt. At 36,000 feet, anything’s possible… though slightly altitude-jaded, I escape into a book, catnap, amp the iPod, and wait for that final destination to appear somewhere in the puzzle pieces of the sleeping mountains below. From taxi to tarmac and nearly a mile of yet another throng of corridors… I finally trace the baggage claim.
A design assuredly part of some new fitness program.
Sweater, secondhand. Denim, DIY. Tank, Juicy Couture. Platforms and bag, Betsey Johnson.