Resist That Urge!

I'm reallyreallyreally lucky that people watch out for me. Like Trish, the owner of BJ's. After several months of my falling in love with stuff, buying it from her, bringing it home, and then, weeks later, taking it back (not for a refund, but to re-consign; not a financially-astute way of shopping, let me tell you), she made a rule: if I think I want something, I have to take it home overnight, wear it around the house, show it to The EGE, and sleep on it ("on it," not "in it"). If I still want it, I come back and pay for it. If I come to my senses, then I bring it back, no questions asked. Many some snickering and teasing and maybe every once in a while an I Told You So, but no hassles.

This sounds like I've regressed and am allowing someone else to make  rules for me. OK, maybe so. But given my wild enthusiasm for other people's clothes and the mania that sometimes results from several hours of hanging out in her shop playing dress-up, it's the only solution. She's saved me from some True Follies, some purchases that I would regret within days, if not hours. I still buy a lot from her--well, relatively speaking: many of the people who consign with her make me, even with my love of gently-worn clothing, look like an ascetic. We're talking some women who shop A Lot. Holy moly. But I do buy from her, and I love that--I get clothes I love and that have already been broken in (because you know I hate the newness of new clothes, that stiff, over-processed feel of the fabric) and that are a fraction of what they would be new.

OK, so here's what I'm taking back here in a minute. I brought them home last night and admired them mightily, although I suspect it's only for their novelty. These shoes are SO not me, but cute? Omigod. They're beyond cute. Never mind that they look silly and are impossible to walk in and so totally impractical as to seem as if they were designed to Keep Women in Their Place. Still. I actually squealed when I saw them. Never mind that both Trish and Tiffany were all like, "You like those? You'd wear those?"

No. No, I wouldn't. I couldn't. I would injure myself going out the front door. Still, it was fun having them around while I imagined wearing them in My Parallel Life. You know, the one where I sit around all day with my girlfriends and drink sweetened tea and eat cupcakes and squeal, not unlike that scene in Marie Antoinette. You know, that whole life of girly-girliness. Except, of course, without the wealth and extreme youth and that icky guillotine part at the end that the movie left out.

Just, you know, the shoes part!