Candy Jones Confronts the Passage of TimeJenn Koiter
Now we have entered the period of the great reversal. Hats live in hat boxes, while peasant triangles cover heads and enter churches. Unpolished shoes, run-down heels, bare legs by the dozen. Momentarily, I thought it was a costume party. My feet looked like I’d been overseeing a mine. I am forty-two years old. I’m middle-aged. This to me is revolting. A mask of a face topping a wreck of a body. I have a golden leg stashed away in a closet. And I bet you never knew … and couldn’t have cared less! You’re like a bicyclist picking his way along a road strewn with broken glass. Don’t sparkle too much all over. You’re not going to an opera, dear. The lighting will be bright and revealing. Think of a coat as a cloak. Think about the judges. Put yourself in the position of a judge. Pity the woman with flat feet. One of these years it will happen to you.
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