There was no one to fasten my pearl necklace. I would be getting ready for some really big dance—to be held in some grand ballroom that my little town didn’t even have possess—and I would be stuck. Hair done up real big, reminiscent of Mamma living in Madrid going to dinner dances at the Ritz, a long, sapphire blue dress, the swish of silk stockings—still, I couldn’t leave the house because I was alone and no man was there to position my pearls, fit the delicate gold hook inside the filigreed clasp.

When I was five years-old, eight, twelve and then sixteen this was a reoccurring nightmare, my greatest fear in life: I would have no man to fasten my necklace. Then, I was seventeen, a junior in high school and onto much more important things. Why are you worrying about a damn necklace—not to mention a boy—when there are SAT’s to study for, college applications to fill out, an important life to plan, I chastised myself.

University. My liberal arts college left a bad taste in my mouth so I created a major that would allow me to travel the world. Every moment of every day was spent concocting a new plan that moved me from Buenos Aires to Aix-en-Provence to Bahia del Salvador and back again. No time to worry about being alone.

Then, New York City happened to me. I worked at a news channel. The environment, the people, my first winter—everything was cold. Thoughts turned back to that pearl necklace. Maybe I hadn’t been such a fool after all. Age five and I knew what was important. It wasn’t about being dependant, it was about being with someone you love to help you along the way.

35 degrees up here in New York today. Chef is next to me and pouring my morning coffee and placing a kiss on my warm cheek. No pearl necklace to speak of yet. We’ll manage that bit later. First things first.

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