September 23, 1999
Testing My DNA

I'm wearing my new suit today: a little herringbone jacket and matching black slacks. I bought it for forty bucks, marked down from $200 at one of those local discount places.

I've got new shoes, too ... a pair of cute-but-amazingly-painful black sandals with big ugly 70's-style platform heels. (These shoes look exactly like something I would have worn in twelfth grade: every time I glance down at my feet, I imagine I'm back in the choir room again, waiting for Mr. Davis to cue the Cleavage Alto Section.)

Plus, I'm having a Semi-Cooperative Hair Day, my eyebrows match, nine out of ten fingernails are viable, and -- best of all -- absolutely nothing on my entire *person* is held together with safety pins today.

I think I look pretty darned spiffy (she says, twirling daintily). Today, at least, I look every inch the Executive Ass that I am.

Don't you agree?

And yes, I realize that for someone who hates clothes-and-shoe-shopping as much as *I* do -- or at least, as much as I'm always SAYING I do -- I've been indulging in an inordinate amount of it lately. One particularly bizarre, out-of-character afternoon last week, I actually went to a shoe store and bought FOUR PAIRS OF SHOES within ten minutes. I'd had a crappy day at work, compounded by a ridiculous fight with my best online friend. (I was miffed because I felt he hadn't properly acknowledged my one year of sobriety. He was *miffed* because he felt I hadn't properly acknowledged the fact that Hurricane Floyd had just turned his Firebird into agondola. We signed off more or less not speaking to each other.)  I felt tired and flattened and ... what can I say? ... all of a sudden I was overcome by the urge to run out and spend money on something stoopid. (Preferably something non-fattening. And preferably something NOT requiring a co-signer, 128 MB of RAM or a concealed weapons permit.)

Just a day or two earlier I'd written on this website about those missing *chick chromosomes* ... how I felt out of the female loop because I don't like to shop ... and I guess I thought it was time to put my own DNA to the test.

So off we went to the mall.

David stood there in the aisle of the shoe store, patiently holding boxes as I piled them into his arms, one by one. (A little old lady saw him standing there in his suit and tie, holding four boxes of shoes, and thought he was the store manager. "Where are the shoelaces?" she asked him.) He had that foolish, fond look on his face as he watched me zoom up and down the Size 9 aisle. 

"Take your time!" he said. "Try them ON first!" he said. "Get what you need ... you can afford it!" he said. 

And I've got to admit that it was sorta fun ... in a mindless, frivolous, "we can either buy shoes or we can just FLUSH the money down the JOHN" sort of way. It's not something I'd want to do every day, but it did take some of the edge off my funk. And David was totally in awe, as we walked out of the shoe store. 

"You shop just like a guy!" he said admiringly ...  the ultimate compliment for a non-shopper like me.

Of course, the whole experience would probably have been more satisfying and successful if I'd bothered to try the shoes on before I bought them. I had to stuff Charmin in the toes of the ivory pumps yesterday, and I've got Band-Aids strategically taped to the more vulnerable footspots today, hoping to head off blisters from the black platforms. What can I tell you? It's going to take me a while to fully get the hang of this shopping thing. But at least I'm trying.

And who knows? Maybe next time EdmundKaz and I have a fight, I'll get a PEDICURE! Or take a BUBBLE BATH! Or listen to a MICHAEL BOLTON CD! 

It could happen.



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