You know that old saying about not knowing what you don’t know until you know? Well, it’s been a week like that around here!
In order for me to explain, I need to remind you that I have lots of frequent flyer miles with my buddy the knee surgeon. Lots! And, while I’m blessedly better than I used to be, my left knee has the occasional hissy fit and buckles, randomly, which results in my falling down.
Falling down is not on the approved list of activities when you’ve had knee surgery as many times as I have.
(Neither, for that matter, is spending big chunk of a week on the floor at the vet’s office, but Phoebe’s feeling better so we’re just going to overlook that!)
All of which means that, the vast majority of the time, I use a walking stick. One of the snazzy looking ones that implies that I might be headed off for a hike up Stone Mountain. (Not!) The cool thing about it is that it’s completely height adjustable. It’s also a fun toy for my girls.
One of the things the walking stick means, though, is that my right hand is engaged in walking and standing.
And one of the things that means is that I’m addicted to pockets. Preferably pockets in denim vests and jackets which have lots and you can wash them to get out the inevitable crumbs of dog treats.
So here’s what I learned that I didn’t know I didn’t know.
If one happens to live in a place where it is currently cold and needs to go to an event where the mythic denim vest might be rather too casual and, oh, by the way, has suddenly developed the need to schlep really cool new business cards and art books and sketch pads, along with the basic necessities like phone, keys, and lip gloss, and still be able to walk and shake hands, there is an opportunity for problem-solving!
Oh, one more thing… the short black boots with the pink faux fur, complicate things just a bit more.
The good news is that I got some things sorted out in my closet and found a couple of great paint shirts that had somehow managed to escape notice for a while.
Clearly, I needed a cross body style bag that worked with black, pink, and all my more usual, artsy sorts of choices.
Not too much money.
Just the right size.
And not likely to show an occasional paint spatter.
Oh, and I needed it now.
Much research ensued. Art stores. Office stores. You name it, I cyber hunted there. All in the midst of setting up my very own space at FineArtAmerica, where reproductions of some of my work are beginning to be available for adoption.
I found the answer about 5:30 yesterday morning.
I seriously considered swearing Bill to secrecy and never telling anyone. And then I decided that life changes and change means challenge and we’re pretty much all in this together, so here goes:
I bought a diaper bag!
Light weight. Accessible pockets. Fabulous (washable) fabric. And exactly the right size.
I even love the symbolism in the print.
It’s due to show up by the time you read this.
And, yes, I’ll post a picture.
But, for today, some symbolism that also matters very much to me. Every chance I get!
