I've been stuck in this medical purgatory for the past month. My days are filled with rest interrupted by antsy doctors, NSA's with a need to check blood pressure every 20 minutes, tube feeds, and therapists trying to evaluate me through my purchases e.g. "Why the green bag?"). My nights are pretty much the same thing, with even less sleep and my early mornings are met with blood work. That, and they're constantly telling me I can't eat for reasons I swear they make up minutes before. For months we've been trying to get me just look at food. Now, I want to do more than look. I want to ravish it. I want to gorge on it and they tell me I can't eat, dangling food in front of me on a string. Cut to me hoarding chicken wings, cheeseburgers, and fries in my room. And mild sauce! Mild sauce makes everything worlds better.
They keep offering me ice chips to compensate. Like flecks of frozen water could ever take the place of an extra large corned beef sandwich with peppers. Needless to say, I don't want any freaking ice chips!!! Too bad this isn't a blog about uncontrollable gluttony. It does however have a point, which I promise I'm getting to.
The point is: This ordeal has become somewhat bearable because of D.V. by Diana Vreeland, the memoir of former editrix in chief of American VOGUE.
It's a memoir, so it's validity is questionable but for conversation's sake (and my fanatical dreams) let's just say every word on every page is true. And in assuming this, one would find that Diana Vreeland led one of the most charmed lives. Born in Paris with addresses in London and New York, vacations in places like Tunisia, Morocco, Spain, Budapest, Russia, Wyoming even. I sincerely doubt there is a patch of earth that hasn't been touched by the soles of her shoes. Friends with Coco Chanel. An advisor to Jack Nicholson. Dinners with the most extraordinary people of her time - Cole Porter, Josephine Baker.
My life right now isn't nearly as glamorous as hers. But who's to say that, with a lot of work and passport stamps, it will be. I see myself succeeding her one day. I want it all. The Times Square office. The positively "medical" looking chair.
You really should read it. It's written as if she's sitting across from you so a lot of things are described like "as tall as you are" and "out to here", which I find truly endearing because It reads as if the two of us are sipping tea or sharing a meal (although, fun fact, she despised business lunches).
I will say this: women like DV aren't be taught, they just are. You could live your life to every detail and it wouldn't be a quarter graceful, smart, or charming. Because of that allure, she provides a sense of escapism for me. As I read, I imagine myself sauntering through speakeasies, being held at the mercy of a flock of peacocks - embodying the true tenacious spirit of Ms. D.V.
