Vintage is good. Vintage is in. Vintage is a much lovelier word than old.
Since you clickied on the link, allow me to draw you a visual before we begin.
Feather boas and heeled slippers.
Dry martinis, neat.
Well behaved child.
Summer in the Hamptons.
Now, hold that image. Got it?
That is NOT me.
That would be graceful and honey, no one has ever called me Grace.
I'm a walking, talking accident waiting to happen. I sleep too much, don't vacuum enough, usually have dishes in the sink and don't particularly mind a day or two without shaving my legs.
I wouldn't know what to do with hired help and I've never even seen the Hamptons from a distance, although I hear they're lovely in the summer.
The last time my hair was in an updo was senior prom, and although I manage heels remarkably well, slippers are for scuffing around the house in. Mine are cows. Big, obnoxious cows. They match my pj pants though so it's all good.
I've never owned a feather boa, and if I had one, the cat would eat it. Nothing sexier than cat saliva when you're trying to get frisky.
So no, I'm none of those elegant, classy things. I am fairly intelligent, or at least I like to think so. Hate martinis, can't keep a manicure from chipping to save my life either. But I do have a great kid and an adoring husband. So I get props for that.
I'm not even trying for graceful anymore, I'm a warrior now, fighting this aging thing all the way, after all, it's true what they say.
Lifes journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but to skid in sideways, totally worn out screaming "Holy shit, what a ride!"