I knew there would be changes when I moved to the Coast, to take up a more prominent position as "wife". A lower income (and matching lower expenses). A refocus on boats as living, breathing entities as opposed to hypothetical steel parts of a barge. And I knew, that much like always, my life, and therefore my belongings, would be subject to the demands of local floating vessels. It's part of the job, should you choose to take it. I get it. Crap happens. Sometimes literally. Like, when someone else drops the sanitation hose before putting it in the thoughtfully provided trash bag, before actually making it out of the salon of the boat.
In the past, it's taken it's toll on clothing, jewelry, and other accessories. I've had garish epoxy spots on a blue dress that was then re-named "The Monica Lewinsky Dress." I've had emergency duct tape repairs on my trusty comfy old JCrew chinos when a Katrina-damaged boat's hull-to-deck joint decided to take exception to my boarding. I've lost numerous cheap pairs (and a few not-as-cheap pairs) of jeans in battle with fiberglass. You get used to trying not to get too close, too bonded, too in love. You get used to carrying spare sets of clothes, to ward off incidents. You poke things with a stick if there's a possibility it might leave a streak on your carefully guarded Levi's.
I've had pearls pop out of settings around acetone. Ping! I've had tote bags and purses (I only buy sturdy ones) dumped over and taken up to the top of masts as bo's'un's bags, full of DeWalt this and hardware that. And usually that was without my consent.
So like I said, I try to guard against it. But, I can't help picking up the odd piece of luxury now and then. Periodically, a beautiful piece of leather strikes my fancy. Something classic of line, practical of use, sturdy of structure. Something, you know, like a Coach. Or, at least, Foach. If I won't know the difference, I don't know so many people around me who would, or who wouldn't wink and smile and shrug. Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, and all. Girl's gotta pay bills.
But I knew that new-used-possibly-fake Coach purses would come to an end when I moved out here, so I cherished my last real black leather acquisition with its brass closure as the last hurrah of saving for a rainy day purchase and then saving it for a really bad day to use it for the first time. My last one I'd used for 42 months straight, and it has it's battle scars. And this one, this one I'd obtained for the express purpose of putting it away to find when I moved to the coast, whenever that would be, grr. The next day, I was jobless, moving to the coast, and needed a stellar interview bag.
6 weeks later... a bag which apparently had 5200 on it met up with my Coach.
Half an hour of scrubbing with solvents later, I would say it looks 95% better, in terms of how much white you can see. But I'm unsure how much I've damaged that buttery beautiful leather; the white stitching nearby has turned black from my scrubbing (I wish it was black stitching to begin with, frankly). This vision of 5200 all over the flap will forever be burned into my memory. I'll always see the damage.
And truthfully, while I'm fairly annoyed, I'd still rather be here with 5200 on my Coach, than back there in Town in a permanent holding pattern. There isn't much if anything in the way of boaty glue you could add to my Coach that would make me feel otherwise.
