As a general rule, used things give me the heebie jeebies. Put me into a vintage clothing store, and watch me mentally unravel as I stand stick straight to avoid touching the origin-unknown apparel that inevitably protrudes into my personal space and begs my claustrophobia to send me running for air free of stale lint. My neurosis prevents me from looking great in the unique pieces my friends always seem to find.
My neurosis extends to other, similar areas as well. I particularly hate it when someone else’s hair brushes against my skin, and I refuse to eat food cooked by a stranger, assuming that stranger is not a professional chef. I have my mom to thank for that one (which has surely saved me from many unwashed hands and stray hairs) because we were always forbidden from taking homemade treats from bake sales or cake walks. Unless you know I love you, please don’t invite me to a pot-luck dinner.
Amid my disdain for most things from strangers, there has been one bright, vintage treasure in my life. And of course, I found it in Paris. In a small antique store in the Marais. Amid yellowed school supplies and rusted house numbers. I found the perfect, stray, little shot glass. I love it’s thick glass, optimistic, yellow stars, and barely-scratched golden accents.
Of course, I washed it 101 times and have used it only once in a true moment of shotglassness. But every time I look at it, I can’t help but smile at its whimsical charm. My little, Parisian treasure.