Viva Las Vegas

I'm sitting here on the plane home. The woman next to me's big branded skater style sneakers have drifted over into my space, and she hasn't yet noticed - probably a result of the pseudo Bloody Mary she's been drinking. She pulls her iPad out of her purse, the giant jacquard "C" logos covering the entire thing, making the shape of it not only in discernible but also unimportant, secondary to the high contrast logos. 

The case housing her iPad is black and innocuous, and it stands out to me compared to all of the over the top glitz I've seen this weekend. It's cute and has an attached keyboard, so useful as well. I shiver a little, feeling the goosebumps pop up along the length of my legs, and reach up to close the old fashioned airplane style circular vent. A scene playing out through my headphones catches my attention. Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine plays on the screen a few rows ahead of me, partially obscured by the overhead compartments. Jasmine is wandering around a party, trying to find someone to talk to while toting around her big Birkin, interlocked C's hanging from her belt letting everyone know that that lovely dress she's wearing is, in fact, Chanel.  She's visibly uncomfortable but also dripping with confidence, an anomaly. 

The scene changes and I'm less transfixed. I look back down to the the girl next to me in her baby pink top sipping her makeshift Bloody Mary, watching episode after episode of Sex and the City.