I am not a cat person. I am a cheetah person.
We have little in common. They often travel at 70 mph. If it were legal, I would turn the ignition in my Buick and simply let the momentum of that heap of metal roll me to my destination, braking when the speedometer inched beyond 35 mph. They mostly prefer real estate nestled amongst the grassy vegetation of Africa, primarily in Namibia, where they can rub elbows and claws with the local antelope. I prefer dwelling amidst urban high rises and flocks of people, although sometimes I think I might prefer rubbing elbows with antelopes to a few of my neighbors as I am almost positive that evolution did not bless them with the ability to whistle at young girls on the street. They dine on rabbits. I’m a vegetarian. They are an endangered species. I, well, perhaps I am too, disregarding the possibility of parallel universes, that is.
But, oh, do we have similar tastes in outerwear.
This particular leopard blazer (which is faux, of course) belonged to my unbelievably stylish grandmother. It is one of a series of cheetah inspired coats she would pull from her over-stuffed closet every winter while kicking back the mounds of shoes that undoubtedly spilled out. I feel lucky to have inherited a couple from her, but feel differently about doing it justice – she wore this jacket with such effortless glamor that I’m unsure I could come close to pulling it off.
Grandma’s have the best hand-me-downs, don’t they?