I feel like it was only about two days ago I was bemoaning the start of the new semester. Like most of my colleagues (and profs in solidarity worldwide), I felt burnt out before it even began. And suddenly I blinked and found myself on the threshold to October. I guess if there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that time chuggs steadily and relentlessly forward to the next station, whether we like it or not.
I remember when I was just starting out in science as a fledgling PhD student, I used to sit and worry about running out of research questions. It was inconceivable to me that I would have enough words to say or things to explore past my PhD, so focused was I on my singular task. How can it be possible to sustain an entire career, I wondered? Is there a point in every scientist’s life where they simply have exhausted their lists of possible projects? Naively I thought there must be.
In many ways, I feel that vintage carries with it stories of the past. A bit of the woman who wore her before me. Like a friend who has known you your entire life, there are secrets in every swath of fabric, every stitch of leather. And as I reach for a particular piece on a particular day, I feel as though I’m reaching for that woman. Taking her hand and letting her know that I remember her. That I carry her in my daily life and have become part of the story.
Part of what makes vintage amazing is the hunt – wondering where the next gem will be hiding. It’s the thing that keeps us digging through racks of consignment stores, feverishly browsing our tried and true vintage shops, and “just having a quick look” as we pass through Small Town, Population 50, thinking this could be the place that holds the illusive Holy Grail.