Confession

Dear Anthropologie Cambridge,

It was me.

I’m the one who wreaked havoc on your Modern Art meets Hipster Home Goods store display on Sunday. I was twirling around in front of your full-length mirror when, concluding I just cannot rock a bucket hat, I whipped it off a bit defeatedly and unwittingly tangled myself and the hat in all that thread swooping down from the ceiling.

The indignity! I turned right. I turned left. I was trapped in a web of whimsy! I craned my neck around, praying I wouldn’t meet the steely, bespectacled eye of the shop hand that patrolled the area.

Looking down at my Technicolor straightjacket, I made a desperate calculation. I rustled through my purse, fished out my keys, and lifted it into the light: the Swiss Army knife given so solemnly to me by my father a decade before.

How the hell to open it?

But within seconds I found them—the scissors—and I snipped my way free, wondering if my father (or indeed, the Swiss Army) could have anticipated such peril. And then, I confess.

I did it:

thread1I snapped a photo and ran out the door, thread clinging to my shirt, leaving behind a few telltale remnants reaching limply toward the floor.

My apologies,
Lynne Blaszak

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