Sashay? Don't mind if I do

I have spent my whole life trying to understand what is meant by style.  The only way that I can express my relationship with it is to say simply that the notion persists in dodging me.  The word "fashion" makes my brow get all wrinkly and my mouth puckery; that word is even more frustrating than "style".  Would you believe that one of the ideas that I gave my daughters for a Christmas present was a color wheel, as if that somehow would help me when I'm standing in my closet any given morning, trying to put together an acceptable ensemble.

Be that as it may, every once in a great while I have a feeling (and it's not even that confident a feeling) that I've seized on the right combination.  This morning was one of those moments.  As I walked down the hallway to my classroom, I caught myself sashaying, and the realization made me smile stupidly.  Continuing to my door, my mental check came up with this:  I'm wearing a plaid, flannel oxford shirt, dress jeans and low-heel pumps.  Very uninspired look.  Hmmmmm. . .  Closer mental examination convinced me that it was the shoes.  Of COURSE it was the shoes!

I would be embarrassed to admit how many pairs of shoes I have ordered in the last year, ever searching for that perfect pair.  I finally had a winner and they made me feel GOOD!  Enough for me to sashay in an empty hallway early in the morning, the purposeful click of my heels echoing ahead of me.  Oh, I could feel good in my Tims walking down that same hallway, but I wouldn't have sashayed, and the next person could easily sashay in a pair of stilettos but I would have sawed off my feet by the time I arrived at my classroom if I were crazy enough to think that stilettos and I have any business working together.  So, at the end of the day, style will still artfully dodge me, but my toes will wiggle delightedly in my sensible Ros Hommerson's.

The Gahden!

We've seen the image over and over.  The camera sweeps up to the rafters to take in the 1972 banner, the 1970 1941 1939 1929 banners.  It's a magical moment now to observe the new 2011 banner floating up to take its rightful place next to the one that of course has most meaning for me.  When the cameras turn to capture the faces of former champs down on the ice, especially my adored Bobby Orr, I can almost, ALMOST conjure up that same sense of joy felt thirty-nine years ago.  (I can be forgiven, too, for having fallen in love with the superstar when I was a teenager, not so easily forgiven for still hanging onto a bit of that crush.  He's still so dreamy, though; how can I not?!)

But the point here is that we see those banners at every moment when an announcer or news reporter wants to get all dramatic or to build "feeling", and the effect becomes dulled, the effort lacking real meaning.  It is sweet, however, to see that 2011 banner settling into its new home.  Tonight, at least, the effect is poignant, the effort definitely with meaning.

Let the games begin!