My summer-lust has officially reached delirious heights.
I'm dragging out the tank tops.
Working out just a little bit extra to get rid of that winter blubber (kind of a lie...because this weekend was very, very bad...nay, the previous week was an exercise in sinfulness...)
The heavy coats are being relegated to the 'No Man's Land' section of the armoire.
Plus my new perfect sandals for balmy, idyllic, lemonade-filled days to come arrived in the mail (despite the slightly retarded episode where I had to inform UPS that my house was not in Queensland...)
Ah oui, oui, mes amours, les K Jacques!
My resolution for the summer to come. I had enough of the humble rubber thong. Although I still haven't thrown out my ratty black Havaianas (they have sentimental value). The girl has come of age and suitably should now be pounding many a sunny pavement or sandy dune in the traditional footwear of choice for the Riviera-chic folks of St Tropez.
With an eternal air of les vacances. Delicious smelling leather. The rather fantastic feeling of getting to wear a well-made, heritage product to death (they have been hand-made in St Tropez since the '30s...incentive much?). And the joys of channelling B. Bardot...
I haven't been this excited since the summer holiday bell in the fourth grade...
Bisous mes petits
xx
Bec
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