I want to "embalm myself in swathes of black fabric", as so elegantly worded by a British newspaper rag.
I want the feet of my grandfather, all cold and wide and ready to trek across a linoleum floor sans discomfort all at once.
I want a scarf so long that it could double as a wrap-it-your-own-way bridesmaid dress.
I want either the patience to wait in line at an outbound Starbucks prior to hopping in a vehicle heading towards home or the deep sense of serenity that would allow me to drink a hot drink prior to entering airport security and promptly depositing four dollars and fifty cents in frothed milk in the trash receptacle.
I want a purse that magically fits my laptop and all of my nonsense , because I'm so fancy that my bags are probably currently being flown individually to my destination in advance of my leaving, all so I don't have to lift a satchel that isn't made of crocodile skin.
I want sunglasses so large they cover the fact that I'm as pale as the day is long, even if I have the bone structure of a beautiful albino bird.
I want to wear so many layers of ebony and midnight blue that I feel like I rolled myself up in a taco of dark fleece that in turn looks like a casual, fantastic fashion statement.
And most importantly, I want to be followed by a ghost of myself, dressed the same from the Achilles tendon upwards, only with more foresight for sun protection.
Ah, that's it.