Anne is always right, you know.
At a New Year’s party in 1999, when the guests were asked for their predictions for the next decade, Anne looked at the rest of the party-goers and said in her clear and non-emotional voice, “Makeup for men.” The place went a little wild with naysayers. She was right, you know.
Several years ago Anne said to us all, “You know, aprons are on their way back. I’m surprised if you won’t see people wearing them around as a fashion statement.” She was right, you know, as everyone is a little apron-obsessed these days. Well, Anne was right AND aprons are handy.
I checked in on Anne last night. I put the fresh berry tart onto a cake stand and carefully drove to her house. The rest of the party-goers were scrubbing her house bright, tidying after the festivities. Two by two they departed into the softening dusk. Under the green chandelier, a few us of over-stayed our welcome, nestled into the robin’s egg blue patio chairs. On topic: Fed monetary policy, the Bear Stearns bail-out, the renaissance of downtown, and how so-and-so needs a makeover (she does! We took a vote!)
Jen says that Laurie was foaming at the Bear Stearns bailout. “They’re all friends! They just all saved each other!” Laurie is rumored to have blasted. Bon insists that we’ll see the return of the 20% interest rate; I insist it will never happen. “Fed policy, along with the Reagan reforms of the 80s, the days of 20% rates are forever behind us.” “Just you wait,” says Bon, folding her arms firmly, “20% by February.” We agree to postpone until Laurie the economist can arbitrate.
The real estate rumors were whirling into a heady mess, “No, the third house on the south section of the street. Yes, it’s distressed the one with the sloped roofline.” I talk about how the impending bathroom remodel has me arrested in fear; it’s our only bathroom and we have young children. I just want someone to just buy my place, I’ll make it cheaper if I don’t have to remodel, yes I will. Everyone decides I need to do the tear out myself (I do?) That’s the vote; I have to stick with common consent.
I press Anne, “How do you always know what’s coming ‘in’?” She tosses her blonde hair, adjusts the pockets on her apron, blinks her blue eyes twice and explains, as if to a child, “Whatever is really ‘out’ will always stage a resurgence. Once the last box is taken to D.I. and Goodwill, once something is hopelessly ‘out’ it will be on its way back ‘in.’ You just have to be paying attention.”
Finally, it’s just Anne and me, picking at the tablecloth, leaning in our chairs. “Clear blues,” Anne says flatly, “Clear blues are coming in. They’re taking the green out of blue.” We look at the robin’s egg on her reclaimed patio set and say an unspoken lament for a color I’m sure we won’t be able to stand in three years time. She’ll be right, you know.