everyone, meet fate.

To Whom It May Concern

(namely, a fine man I like to call my husband)

I'm a firm believer in fate. Strictly, what's meant to be will be. Well, upon my daily (honestly, hourly) OCD-esque perusing of Pottery Barn online, of which I instinctively, for the sake of you (my robustly handsome husband) and that which we've nicknamed a "checking account," gravitate towards the what's-not-going-to-[literally]-cost-me-my-most-precious-extremities portion of the place I seek decorating solace, my eyes fell upon the epitome of what my design loins have been floundering to produce since our nest's very inception...

Be still my heart, folks.

How can a girl not consider this nothing short of pure, unadulterated fate?

Our beautifully crafted queen-sized, rod iron sleigh bed has been screaming profusely for a makeover. Not that I don't thoroughly adore its current dressings (compliments of the Nate Berkus), but these spoke to me. Seriously. I'm not ashamed to say I pressed my ear absurdly close to the computer screen to assure myself that I wasn't, by chance, hallucinating, but, in fact, heard with absolute clarity the faint whispering of my name. I considered the encounter pretty prophetic, honestly. Unquestionably, my heart jumped out of my chest. Laugh, please. Humility is a close friend.

Essentially, we were made for each other.

Sincerely,
Your lovely wife