Clothes Minded

When J and I were first married, and I was a lot more, uh, spendy, there came a point where he was all, "you do not need more shoes. Please stop buying shoes. Also, we are basically poor now because of the shoes." So, I swore up and down that I would stop buying shoes, so that we could afford things such as food, and electricity.

Within a matter of days of my vow, however, I was crossing the street and stepped into a Mirage Puddle that appeared to be shallow, but in actuality was approximately as deep as an Olympic diving pool. Or some other thing that is very deep. However we want to describe it, though, the takeaway here is that I literally lost my shoe in said puddle, necessitating a man in a pickup truck who was driving by to come help me FISH IT OUT WITH A BROOM HANDLE.

Not wanting to wear a squelchy mystery-mud-caked, heel, I was forced -- by HAPPENSTANCE! -- to buy some new shoes. J was forced to buy what seemed like an elaborate ruse, and accept the rationale for the purchase. After all, it was an act of God, basically! Puddles: very tricky!

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A few years later, this happened again, believe it or not, only replace the "food, and electricity" part with "the cost of raising our tiny child," and the "in a mudpuddle" location of the errant shoe with "automatically flushing toilet that wouldn't flush, necessitating me to flush it with my flat, except the flat slipped off my foot and into said toilet, and if you think I am above leaving the shoe in there to die, and then wrapping paper towels around my foot to hobble across the street to Nine West to buy -- yet again -- some new shoes, you, sir or madam, could not be more wrong." J once again incredulously listened to my compelling tale of the new flats.

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As you know, we recently purchased a new home, and -- hope you don't mind the complex economics lesson -- houses be expensive, as be kitchen renovations, day camp, and, you know, everything. Up to and including whatever the hell is going on up in here, because...Jesus.

I think I need a Rita Hayworth poster for my ceiling.

Needless to say, we're trying not to wildly spend rightthisminute.

The other day, I was on my way to the office, and was making my way through Port Authority. Down the escalator I went, headphones on, blissfully unaware of what was happening behind me, which, as it turned out, was a man stumbling on the escalator, causing the rest of us ahead of him to go a-tumblin' like dominoes. I was close to the bottom, and so, when I fell directly on my own butt, it was in the precise spot where the escalator levels off. My expensive suit pants (because obviously) got caught between the...escalator steps (?), and  ripped clean across the right cheek, exposing an alarming and embarrassing expanse of...me. Lest you think I am exaggerating in some way? I ASSURE YOU I AM NOT. Here is my hand for some scale:

Fortunately, there was a Gap around the corner. Unfortunately, that still meant walking wearing what essentially amounted to ASSLESS MERINO WOOL CHAPS, which left me sort of...FLINGING my bag behind my back, and simultaneously arching my back so my shirt dipped down, and caaaaasually draping my hand behind me, all in a futile attempt to cover the crater-sized tear. I had a meeting (because obviously) so I couldn't just buy anything -- I needed to find a matching pair of black suit pants. I found a near-perfect match, paid, and wore them out of the store. It was embarrassing experience, to say the least, and I say that having -- on a separate occasion, years ago -- lost my actual underwear in Times Square.

Yet again, I had bought new apparel, THROUGH NO FAULT OF MY OWN, and a very, very compelling excuse for its purchase.

If I didn't know any better, I would say the universe WANTS me to get new stuff, wouldn't you?