By Regina Connell.
Ahhh summer. With the thwack and crack of balls on Wimbledon’s center court, I feel we’re finally, definitively in it.
A lot of people absolutely adore summer. They love the time, the weather, the being outdoors…but I have to say, I feel about summer the way that people feel about Christmas: that it’s something for other people and that I don’t feel a part of it.
Heresy, I know.
I’m an urban creature, more at home with concrete and monotone and subtlety, not the over-ripe, overly accessible colors associated with summer. To me, things are pretty but not beautiful. Give me the subtle greys, whites, dark charcoals. Then I’m interested.
Maybe this is why I dodged the happy summer bullet and live in the SF Bay Area, where fog sits around till noon so many days from June to August and we’re always wearing sweaters and coats, even in July.
For the most part, summer to me is a just a period of a few months where I have to watch people wear fewer clothes than they really should and it’s amateur hour at the airport.
But as I was writing this post, I realized that I have had good summer memories. There was that time when driving around the French Riviera…
For all the rest and more on our version of the new luxury, wander on over to AltLuxe.
The New Luxury: altluxe.net