+ I don't like shopping. I just don't. It's stressful, there are lines and crowds and people. There are steamy dressing rooms and exorbitant prices and no parking spots. I always seem to be hungry and I always have to pee. Maybe I once was, but I am no longer the girl who likes to go shopping. It involves a level of emotional strength and maturity I do not possess. Shopping, to me, is a chore. A necessary evil. Just a few steps above the grocery store. Walking into a store is like being around an enemy. I have my guard up, always on the defensive, just waiting to be offended.
But the weather is getting warmer, and my sweaty legs wrapped in skinny jeans told me it was time to pick up the smashed and broken pieces of my pride and confidence from last month's mall fail and try to find something to wear this summer just one more time and if that doesn't work, we'll move to Antarctica or somewhere where it's never hot I promise. So I sucked it up and tried again.
AND. SUCCESS. sort of.
It took three years of angst and tears, but this girl is now the proud owner of TWO pairs of shorts. THAT FIT (and DO NOT have hot pink embroidered flowers and anchors). I will still try my darndest to not have to wear them, but I feel that I can finally allow summer to happen, I can now mentally pack for my trip to North Carolina, and I can be a little less miserable about it.
But come near me with a bathing suit and I will slap the sun right out of your sky.
This conversation happened in the produce section yesterday:
Employee: "Hi, how are you today?"
Me: "Good, thanks, how are you?"
Employee: "I'm great!"
Me: "Thank you!"
I mean. Just. What was I thinking? My shopping cart and I peeled away faster than my car out of the parking lot at 5 pm. Once I finally looked up again, I saw a guy from work. Thankfully no one that I know, but still. I recognized him, and that's close enough. How dare he. I tried dodging him as much as possible, but no matter what I did, we always wound up in the same aisle trying to avoid eye contact with each other. Plus, I feel so weird and vulnerable when people look into my shopping cart. My cart is the window to my soul. These are the things that quite literally make me who I am (mainly cheese). They are the treasurers inside of my treasurer box (the fridge). AVERT YOUR EYES (and stop judging me for all these boxes of popped chips because I cannot and will not stop myself).
And then I ran into produce man again, and he asked me if he could help me find anything.
"Yes, please. My dignity. I believe I left it over by the bananas."
The cashier later told me they will be rearranging the entire store again shortly. She explained the reasoning behind it and even told me why they've had the paper towels by the black beans (FINALLY SOME ANWERS), and as grateful as I was for this information, it did nothing to keep my knees from buckling at the prospect of relearning the store I still haven't learned since the last upheaval. Be on the lookout for more twitter meltdowns on the subject, as I have nothing else to whine about at the moment.
+ Picture this: me, laying (lying? I'll never know) on my bed. A lack of pants (don't picture that), the windows open with the 70 degree breeze blowing the grey curtains, and music playing. A perfect Sunday afternoon. I listened to a lot of good music this weekend. Laundry Room and January Wedding by The Avett Brothers are my current drugs of choice, but Ingrid Michaelson's new album is perfection and needs to be blasted while driving down the highway. You know how some wines are best served with certain foods? I feel that way about music. Some is best listened to in the car, others at home with the windows open, and some while dancing in the kitchen.
And now it's Monday morning, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cry at my desk.