At the risk of sounding like Amneris, there's something so incredibly fulfilling about wearing the perfect outfit. When mood, weather, line, fabric, function, and color sync up perfectly a transcendent sensation comes over me. It's almost like being in love.

I can't wait to lose more weight and be able to dress the way I want to all the time. The best clothes simply aren't made in size 18. Earlier today I was on the phone with Lynn Peril lamenting the sad fact that even at my slimmest I was never able to wear vintage clothing. I've always been too zaftig; people who saved their designer dresses long enough for them to find their way into a thrift store never seemed to be busty. She commiserated, commenting that at five foot seven she finds a lot of the older clothes aren't cut for someone of her height. The waistbands tend to hit her in the ribcage. Still, she's managed to collect some gorgeous items.

I confessed I had no urge for Dior frocks but would give almost anything to find a pair of 1920s shoes and a cloche hat in my size. I've been looking for years on three continents and never once found shoes larger than size 7 (I wear a 9) or a real cloche style with the domed top and the long sides, only the flatter, wider Edwardian predecessor. This led to a mutual visit to eBay's vintage clothing and accessories categories, and a fair amount of mutual sighing over the merchandise. Also mutual indignation: man, some of these goombahs don't know the difference between the Twenties and the Sixties. There were some sadly miscategorized objects for sale. And no cloches, no matter what the sellers claimed. It's just as well. I don't have an eBay account.

Since we tend not to go in for romantic gestures on Valentine's Day I got flowers from John last night, and forgot to give him anything at all today, not even a card. I felt kind of bad about that, so I took him out to dinner (Trish Homis came with us to celebrate an excellent job interview -- everything send good thoughts her way!). John and I care deeply about birthdays and Christmas. Everything else is negotiable, not to say fuzzy. I'm afraid I've permanently mixed up my wedding anniversary with the 1989 earthquake even though they occured four days apart. I used to care about getting chocolate on Easter morning but I think I'm giving that up. Because, well, I really, really want to be a size 12 this time next year and chocolate just isn't in the game plan anymore.

The romance of walking the dog calls to me now. I'd better go put on the perfect dog walking outfit: black coat, and black gloves to match the black leash. Jasper and I will definitely be the hottest looking pair under the streetlights tonight.

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