It’s drizzling outside, which is to say there are not drops big enough to necessitate an umbrella but it is so humid that any attempt at a decent coiffure is wasted energy and product. Suffice it to say my hair is a mess. And I’m on the UES again.

Where chips cost $15.

And where you can find The funeral chapel. Though why it is in quotes, I don’t understand.

I’m at E.A.T. Cafe on Madison. The kiddos are out in full force trick or treating. It’s what you’d expect it to be. They’re darling. Except that on the UES, the costumes are fancy and the kids are going from boutique to boutique, asking for gluten/nut/dairy free treats or plastic free toys. They complained as they came out of Lululemon, saying, “This bag hardly holds any candy at all!”

Me, I’m dressed up too. Tan shirt, black fluted skirt, a cardigan and a Moschino scarf and pearls. Red trench coat. I’m dressed as me if I were French. If past lives are a thing, and I’m beginning to think they are, I was definitely French in a past life. Specifically a WWI era consumptive Parisienne prostitute named Chloe who refused to service any Austro-Hungarian or German. I died of influenza. It’s why I keep getting it in this life. As for the Frenchiness, I’m 17% that, at least if Ancestry.com DNA tests are to be believed.

Lunch is quiche Lorraine. It’s very hot so I’m waiting for it to cool.

From here I’ll stop by Nordstrom on my way to class. I’m looking for a really good blouse. Something with a Peter Pan collar. I’m leaning into the whole ladylike look. Very 1980’s preppy Princess Di/St. Elmo’s Fire sort of thing.

I never can dress that I’m not in costume. It’s a shield that allows me to express who I am, safe beneath a veneer of the bizarre. If I dressed normally, I’d feel naked. It’s my form of cosplay. I doubt if anyone understands this or picks up on the subtle references. But that’s the story of my life, innit?

I looked up from my phone and saw this:

The French Embassy. It’s a sign.