Per most of my recent blog posts, I've struggled with just how to say good-bye to Breakfast at Target. I'd scratch some notes in my journal or notepad and would feel momentarily inspired; but as I've learned with this space, forcing or cramming or emptily rushing to throw something together isn't the way to go. And after all this time... she deserves better than that.
There was a post lingering in the far corners of my mind I could never seem to actualize. It very much belonged in the conversation of Breakfast at Target; not the final post here on B@T, but a post that gives a little nod back to what this whole space on the internet was all about. And this past week, it hit me. Hard. In the weirdest, pettiest, cry-until-you-start-maniacally-laughing kind of way.
In the last few months, I've been struggling with our new way of life, our new home, and my new venture into creative entrepreneurship. Coming from a place where John and I spent years making a name for ourselves and being involved in our Capital City community; where we always had a friend to call or an event to go to or a reoccurring excuse to see friends and colleagues; where the pace moves a mile a minute; and where we always had a built-in set of goals based around jobs, associations, etc., it was a pretty significant transition coming here and starting all over again -- this time with the training wheels completely off.
Thankfully the excitement, travel, and joyful chaos of the holidays gave us some welcome distraction in the first couple of months of having moved. Then as the New Year cranked back up and the World went about "business as usual" without the bourbon-infused, tinsel-laden sentiment, I found myself in my little home studio, surrounded by stacks of To Do's. To Do's for a new resident. To Do's for a new small business owner. To Do's for someone excited yet terrified of this new chapter.
When most of your work straps you to your home office chair at your computer -- reading articles, completing photo edits, mapping out a business plan, creating new materials, building a new website, researching your target demographic, etc. -- it's a little harder to put on real pants and schedule time to meet and be around actual people. Furthermore, the temptation to scour social media and find out how you can get to the cool table of the Facebook and Instagram Lands is high... "research," you call it. One's digital presence becomes the utmost priority - after all, no one wants to see the disheveled miscreant on her 8th cup of coffee trying to figure out how the CRAP half of this stuff actually works. People want to see beautifully curated, well-styled images with fresh flowers and chai latte foam art and stacks of books only smart people read and high-end brand styled outfits and sweet treats because, HEY, social media goddesses can afford sparkly sugar-frosted sprinkled confections and burn off the calories by just planning the next GOORGEOOOUUSSS photo for their feeds.
Thus began a swift, jerking shift towards viewing my life through a filtered lens.
Thankfully the excitement, travel, and joyful chaos of the holidays gave us some welcome distraction in the first couple of months of having moved. Then as the New Year cranked back up and the World went about "business as usual" without the bourbon-infused, tinsel-laden sentiment, I found myself in my little home studio, surrounded by stacks of To Do's. To Do's for a new resident. To Do's for a new small business owner. To Do's for someone excited yet terrified of this new chapter.
When most of your work straps you to your home office chair at your computer -- reading articles, completing photo edits, mapping out a business plan, creating new materials, building a new website, researching your target demographic, etc. -- it's a little harder to put on real pants and schedule time to meet and be around actual people. Furthermore, the temptation to scour social media and find out how you can get to the cool table of the Facebook and Instagram Lands is high... "research," you call it. One's digital presence becomes the utmost priority - after all, no one wants to see the disheveled miscreant on her 8th cup of coffee trying to figure out how the CRAP half of this stuff actually works. People want to see beautifully curated, well-styled images with fresh flowers and chai latte foam art and stacks of books only smart people read and high-end brand styled outfits and sweet treats because, HEY, social media goddesses can afford sparkly sugar-frosted sprinkled confections and burn off the calories by just planning the next GOORGEOOOUUSSS photo for their feeds.
Thus began a swift, jerking shift towards viewing my life through a filtered lens.
Sloughing tirelessly through the endless waters of uncertainty and doubt and trying to figure out who this "new" Lowcountry version of Celia was, I began calculating and strategizing everything... sitting back analyzing and thinking everything through - before, during, and after. I felt choked and stifled but carried on, making sure I did all the "right things" to appear as if I had it altogether.
After several weeks of feeling misguided, tired, and aimless, I needed a "win." A small victory that verified our course in life. A moment that the Universe would tell me, "HEY SISTA FRIEND, I got your back."
After several weeks of feeling misguided, tired, and aimless, I needed a "win." A small victory that verified our course in life. A moment that the Universe would tell me, "HEY SISTA FRIEND, I got your back."
And there she was. Displayed in the "boutique" section of a local thrift shop, she sat there among a few other name or high end brand finds. A silk scarf. A pair of high-heeled leather boots. I few well-crafted jackets and totes and pieces of luggage.
A beautiful (albeit dusty and mildly scratched) black bag.
A black leather bag branded and inscribed with the label of the couture gods: Hermes.
A beautiful (albeit dusty and mildly scratched) black bag.
A black leather bag branded and inscribed with the label of the couture gods: Hermes.
No, she wasn't lumped with the $4-8 handbags. She stood tall among the other pieces once loved by a member of high society, waiting to get back to use.
I often pop into one of the many local thrift shoppes around the Hilton Head area; of course there's a lot of junk, but I've also made some pretty serious scores. I find pieces for styled photos at weddings, pieces for our little condo, pieces to fix up and wear that just need some love. With the older population around here, it's not uncommon for lots of things - NICE things - to be dropped off when homes get redone/redecorated or an older member of the family passes on and families don't have the time or energy to go through everything. So, of course it made sense someone overlooked a black purse and it wound up on the thrift store floor.
I grabbed it and held tight, inspecting the construction and lining - this HAD to be the real thing. It needed some new thread, a serious polishing of the dark ostrich leather, and a few minor pieces of hardware replaced. But it was otherwise in stable condition. I asked the girl at the counter if she was SURE this bag was only the tagged price of $39... was it missing a zero? A couple of zeros? She furrowed her eyebrow and confusedly assured me it was that price. I swiped my card, no questions asked, and floated dreamily to my car. I was a proud, excited, FREAKING OUT owner of an Hermes bag.
After spending a day motivated by the thrill of the magical thrift store find of the century, I went to the leather repair shop the very next day to get the bag cleaned and verified. (I found out if you can prove the authenticity of the bag, they'll send you a new lock & key tassel at no cost, regardless where it came from - no proof of receipt required.) I had events to attend in the near future and dreamed of my black bag draped across my arm like a real grown-up.
After a few pokes and prods, the gentleman behind the counter squinched his eyes and mouth:
"Ehhhh, I don't think this is the real thing... but it's still a nice bag!"
He pointed out a few things with the threading and hardware and minor details he didn't think added up. I was PISSED. How dare he tell me this bag - THIS bag! - is not real, not mine, not the unicorn of all mighty finds? After a sassy tilt of my head and a squinched glance of my own, he prodded some more... and as he dug into the little side pocket, he gently pulled out the lining:
MADE IN CHINA.
-----
'Eff me.
'Eff me in my stupid, loser hiney.
Not only had I believed I won the lottery of thrifting, I had hastily posted my "fortune" on social media and led others to believe I had, too. But I was duped.
It's like meeting the man of dreams... then meeting his beauuuuutiful wife.
I felt like a dummy. A big dumb dummy.
Why didn't I take 30sec to inspect a teeny bit more?
Why did I have to rush to share when I hadn't gotten it authenticated?
.... and why did I believe -I- was worthy of such a find?
The average, sane person would've written it off as a "bummer." I, however, dramatically flung the stupid thing across the room and kicked it for good measure when I got home.
I wanted so badly to believe that bag would mean something... but it was worthless. A fake. I couldn't even bring myself to carry the damn thing, despite it being a decent bag.
And in staring at the black wad of leather sitting lifeless across the room, I knew got what I deserved. Here I was, gifted with a fresh, amazing start in the place where my dashingly handsome husband and I wanted to wind up so badly... and I was more concerned about "fitting in" and "being liked" and sensationalizing my new journey, rather than using the voice and talents I had fought so hard to discover over the last chapter of our lives to explore my purpose.
In that moment, I decided my voice had its own stories to tell. Experiences to share. My friends and family were THE important people, not the random passerby's and people desperate for their own attention. The moments that make me happy don't really need styling and filters and chai lattes - they're unique and special in their own right.
I'm not saying I won't produce work that's not visually appealing or will stop working hard to create things (y'all know I can do some damage with sunsets and a self-timer). I do believe beautiful photos and art need to be shared and appreciated -- but I won't hide them or distort them with a load of flair to distract from the point. I won't overthink my moments in life in terms of "likes" and "followers."**
So, the next day, I quietly sat down, scrolled through my social media feeds and deleted any accounts that really weren't serving me any real purpose or inspiring me to feel and think more. Then, I wrote on Post-It notes all the things that are making me feel less than myself.
I stuffed those stupid thoughts and feelings into the bag.
And I threw that nonsense right in the trash.
Maybe it's not the most environmentally friendly option, but the trail of the bag's deceit needed to end with me.
So I filled up that space with the things that bring me joy, inspiration, and that little bit of happiness:
And I chose to appreciate the reality of my situation.
Because as bizarre and random and "un-curatable" as my life is, I've been given the best thing in the world: an opportunity for my day-to-day to be one seamless flow of whatever I choose to make it, for myself, the online community, and my new home. I don't want to have to apologize for being curious and involved in many different things; and I want to create a space for others to feel like they can do the same. One's "brand" doesn't always have to be color/photo schemes and styles; it can be defined by kindness, gratitude, inspiration, and a fabulous sense of humor.
To those of you who shared in the brief and exciting joy of a world in which a random girl could find the score of a lifetime off a thrift store floor, I can attest for those 24 hours I was really excited. And know I never would pass off a crap bag for the sake of my own validation - I feel like an IDIOT for disappointing.
To those of you who could spot the bag was a fake from a mile away, thank you for letting me live in that short-lived world where I owned a couture bag and let me be excited.
(And let's get real, how tacky is it to call someone out anyways.)
To those of you who have gone out of your way to ensure this crazy journey into our new unknown is successful, fun, and full of perspective, trust me -- your time and energy and sentiment are appreciated more than you will ever know.
To those of you who genuinely and beautifully put yourself and your talents and your truths out into the world without fear, you inspire me so much - and I'm going to get better about letting you know that.
So, I don't own a designer bag.
But I own a life I've got the freedom to design.
One of purpose, possibility, wonder and waffles.
And it's not like I'd bring along that bag to half the cool adventures that await me anyways... ;)
Hugs &
C
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**I want to note this is by no means an attack or critique on more skillfully curated accounts; I applaud their gift for foresight and planning and branding, it's just not a strategy that served me best - personally or professionally. Do I still appreciate those coffee cup, planner + books, flower sprinkled, prettily styled outfit photos? YOU BET. But I'll leave that to the guys and gals who operate best that way.
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