When the Devil Wears Prada, I Take Notes

If there’s no occasion, make one.

For a midlife mom lost in longing, one occasion is the public pool. A day of sunning my bones on scorched pavement while my youngest son braved the chilly reception of an early summer swim — it was as good a time as any to bring back the head wrap. A pair of cheap white sunglasses finished off my look, which was less fashion statement, more personal monologue: Grab every small pleasure by the nuts and don’t let go.

Although Steven Tyler basically owns the patent on scarf-wearing, I had a small stake in it in my 20s. Scarves were a frequent flyer on my head — my neck, waist, and shoulders too, in any configuration my whimsy could contrive — back when #OOTD didn’t exist and getting dressed was meant for personal expression, not the social share.

My head scarf revival comes courtesy of Anne Hathaway, or more accurately, the costumer designer for The Devil Wears Prada 2. When Anne lit up a scene in Paris with her thick locks all wrapped up in a 60s homage, I turned to my cousin in an eruption of glee: “I used to do that!” As if she should share my inordinate enthusiasm for a scarf. Of course Anne looked lovely, but the real scene stealer wasn’t on the screen, it was in my memory: 22-year-old me, raiding the makeshift closet in my dumpy college apartment — painted fuchsia and electric blue to accentuate its fine features — for a vintage scarf to top off the perfect “fit” (which wasn’t even a word back then). The occasion: A night out with my tribe to the center of our live-music universe, aka the bar named after its address, 123 Pleasant St. Or maybe to a house party. Or a DIY art opening at the tattoo shop (was it the one where the artist used cake frosting instead of acrylic paint?). Wherever we were, I was likely to do two things: dress above the occasion and imbibe in conversation more than beer (I prefer my highs heavy on cognition).

Like my vintage scarf collection, my college tribe was rich with colors and patterns: skaters and punks, painters and drunks; academics, brainiacs, songwriters, and egomaniacs. In our world, male-female friendships were a real, true thing. From Johnny aka John E. Dillin’ Jeah, master of electronica-infused hip hop; to Hamric aka Hamstick the all-around good-dude art major; to Seizeone, the intellectual graffiti and tattoo artist; to indie music aficionado and my personal new-music “dealer” I simply called B, my guy friends made my corner of that world go round. I’ve kept in touch with all of them to varying degrees. My girls too, although our convos have changed drastically: Rather than trash-talking the state of dating young musicians, now we’re trash-talking the state of living with dated estrogen. When I think back on those college days, I can’t help but long for that singular sense of community. Or can I?

I long for nothing. If I want something, I go get it. On a recent phone call, that was an old friend’s response to my pointed question, “Don’t you long for anything?”

He and I have been practicing the art of great conversation for over 20 years now. For a dreamer Christian and a realist atheist, we do what seems nearly impossible in today’s divided society: maintain respect despite our differences, which extend well beyond religion. Free from the wicked weeds of culture wars, we’re free to diverge and converge as individuals simply sharing our earthly experience thus far. My buddy, he has no time for longing. Me, I’ve built my life’s calendar on it. Neither of us is entirely wrong, but both of us could stand to take a note or two from the other.

I spent my 20s and 30s in a state of reinvention. My life as subscription service: What will this month’s or year’s unboxing bring? A pixie cut. A different address. A changed zip code, on repeat. One nose ring, then two. One dog, then three. A new job, a better job, no job, a great job. Longing didn’t give me a storybook or textbook kind of life; it gave me years of exploration, which I consider a privilege. To set my sights on the present — no small feat when you’re perpetually nostalgic for the past or lost in hopes and fears for the future — I realize my longing begs for reinvention. She’s become a bit of a drag.

This morning I fell into conversation with a young barista who could easily play Shaggy in the next live-action Scooby Do. He had the hair and the affect, and I’m pretty sure he smoked major doobage in the stock room. When he recommended the gluten-free lavender cake, I couldn’t help but tell him about moving to Miami where I had my first taste of lavender, infused in chocolate. Have I become that older lady who entertains young’uns with stories of the past? I’m not mad about it, and Shaggy seemed genuinely interested.

“Do you still live there?”

“Oh no, that was many years ago, in my 20s.”

“How old are you now?”

“50 next month.”

“You wear it well.”

So my face has aged well, but my longing could use some work. Noted.

A head wrap is a good start. By missing the me who had a zest for creating an occasion, I’m encouraged to discover small pleasures in the present. Pining for a former community I can’t recreate? Now that’s a liability. That day at the pool was more than a midlife mom wearing a cute accessory — it was a reminder that longing done well does well.