I’ve Been Bucketed

Fashion delusion, poolside.

Every time I go on a resort-type vacation, I pack the hat.

You know the one. Wide-brimmed. Soft. Supposedly effortless. The Bucket.

And every time, I think—this time it’s going to work.

Then I get to the pool.

It’s on everyone. Straw, canvas, bold prints, linen chic. They look like travel influencers on day three of their sponsored wellness retreat. Glowing. Confident. Lightly spritzed with Aesop.

And me? I look like a repotted plant.

When exactly did the bucket hat become the access card to the sunny places we all now frequent? I keep packing it like it’s a passport stamp for cool. But the truth is: on my head, it reads less “boho beauty” and more “terracotta tragedy.”

So please don’t water me. I’ve accepted my fate.

I know—I appear parched. I seem…optimistic. I'm radiating “she tried” energy.

Just avert your eyes…and maybe toss me a margarita.

Next trip, I’m whipping out one of the other eleven hats I own—perhaps the fedora. Here’s hoping it delivers sun protection…and slightly less of an identity crisis from the chin up.