I’m personally convinced I have lived many lifetimes, otherwise why would I feel such a strong affinity to petticoats, butter churns and silver asparagus tongs? I quiver when I see an antique inkwell. I get weird butterfly feelings in my stomach about finding a replica child size straw tricorn hat online. I think to myself wearing a corset or stomacher could not have been that bad. This cannot be not natural.
I’m thinking I must have done something really stupid at one point, prohibiting me from graduating to the next celestial plane, because I found myself dumped into modern-day suburbia, where serving Ritz crackers and processed cheese on styrofoam plates is the height of entertainment and the neighborhood kids write on the sidewalks in chalk in the dead of night, “Fuck off, asshole.” (True story.)
So here I sit, patiently waiting for calling cards, dances and better manners to come back in to fashion, hoping living this life moves me on, while suffering through the advent of skinny jeans, lower back tattoos, plastic cutlery, sexting and Donald Trump.