So we survived Day Two--just barely. I took the kids to the mall to drown our sorrows in shopping and food that's bad for you, and it worked (which tells you exactly which gender my children are, unless you are male and clueless in which case you are having a worse day than me.) Unfortunately, in my shopping-drunken state, I made a purchase which I now regret.
I have this strategy when I shop for therapy which is that I don't try on clothes. You would think this would make purchasing clothes a little difficult, which it sometimes does, but I have become an expert at buying things that do not make me look fat. I own lots and lots of shoes, purses, and jewelry. I have (this is just an estimate because I'm too embarrassed to count them) around 30 purses, maybe 40 pairs of shoes, and more pearl necklaces than anyone will ever need. In my defense about the latter, I lived down the street from the Pearl Market in Shanghai China and they have an entire floor filled only with jewelry! And one simply should not turn down the opportunity to buy a $15 ruby ring. That would foolish and criminal. And when one lives down the street from the Pearl Market, there are lots and lots of those kind of opportunities.
So last night I bought a new purse, which I don't regret in the slightest, and a T-shirt from Old Navy which I totally do. Before Husband comments on why do I need another purse when my closet is so overflowing with them that they sometimes fall down and hit me on the head, I will remind him that I am commuting to work every day on the metro and commuting requires a specific kind of purse which until last night I did not have. After much trial and error, I have decided that a commuting purse must have straps large enough to sling over my shoulder, be roomy enough to hold a water bottle on hot days, be leather, and not be white. None of my other 30 bags fit the bill, but last night I found the perfect bag in the store where I bought the white one which would be perfect except that it used to be white and now it's an ugly, dingy gray. I'm trying out the new bag today and I will give you updates on its perfection.
No, the purchase I regret is the Old Navy shirt that I didn't try on. You may think I'm foolish for not trying it on, but I NEVER try on shirts at Old Navy. I have been the same size at ON for years and years. Once I found out that I was always the same size no matter what the style, I happily bought in stores and online many, many shirts (mostly T-s) all of which fit. Since dressing rooms are a known blow to my self-esteem, this strategy has helped fill my shopping needs and kept my denial about my actual size intact and worked swimmingly until this morning when I tried on the shirt which is too small. You might think that the problem is that I might have gained weight from all the stress eating, but this is not the case (yet.) All of my other clothes still fit and I've actually lost a little weight this week from being too stressed to eat. No, I'm firmly convinced that the problem is with the shirt and is because it is British. And before you are thoroughly confused, I will mention that it is a London Olympics T-shirt which I bought to replace the London Olympics T-shirt I actually bought in London and discovered when I got home to America that British sizes and American sizes are NOT THE SAME! And now that T-shirt has been consigned to the Drawer of Things I Might Fit into One Day. So when I saw one at Old Navy, I thought "here's my chance to get one that fits!" And now it doesn't. It wouldn't be so bad if I could return it but I did the thing I am always getting after my kids for doing and I cut off the tag before I tried it on. I am now convinced that the British are out to get us, so here is my moment of Colonial rebellion.
I might just drive up to Boston and throw all my too small Olympic T-shirts in the harbor. Who's with me?
Since I am obviously not in a good mood and am convinced that pretty much everyone who has clothes that fit is having a better day than me, especially if their husband is not in Afghanistan, I'm going to go with my friend Adair's suggestion that women who don't know they are pregnant and give birth win for having a worse day. I don't see how this could happen myself because I think I am pregnant every single month even when it's not physically possible, like when my husband is in Afghanistan. And I always hold my breath (figuratively, not literally) until I receive absolute confirmation that I am not. If I ever go into menopause, it will be after many, many drugstore pregnancy tests. But I can't imagine how overwhelming it would be to think your appendix was bursting and then have to give birth without an epidural because you didn't know you were pregnant. So ladies, thank you for making me grateful I am not you. (Although you still get a baby out of it, so maybe that's not so bad.)
P.S. I tried out the purse in the grocery store and it is still perfect! So is the new wallet. :-)