|"After this, let's go buy graham crackers. I don't want to feel like I put on a slip for nothing."|
Is it possible to drink so much coffee in twenty-four hours, you feel like you're being stabbed in the kidney?
Anywho, how was everyone's weekend? If you're like moi, you thought outside the box, showered, and got dressed. Trust me, it took a lot of planning and a couple listenings to some old motivational tapes, but, eventually, I ended up in a matching outfit, styled hair, and some makeup.
Ok. Fine. It wasn't my idea. I had to go to a fund raiser to hear this lovely lady talk, but after the entire thing was said and done, I decided to take advantage of the fact I looked like a real person and head to the grocery store.
Because that's what one does when one looks fancy. She goes and buys formula and sale items, like four-for-a-dollar yogurt. (I know. Sometime days you wake up in the morning and think you won't be able to purchase moderately-priced dairy. And others...)
Right, so there I was, all boots, black outfit and sparkly earrings, cruising the aisle, picking up Coke like it was on the list, when it hit me. I was way too fancy.
Now, I always daydream about it, breaking out of this joint with my hair styled, and picking up the toilet paper with neatly manicured nails. Oh, I have dreams. But no one tells you how unnatural that feeling actually is when it happens.
Passing moms in yoga pants.
Bedraggled women in wind suits.
A one-eyed hermit who emerged from her cave to buy peaches in bulk.
As I swam against the tide of shoppers, I realized I'd turned my back on my own kind.
"Who needs to wear boots to buy salad," they whispered. "Where's she taking it? Some type of boot salad party?"
"Huh, a clean shirt. If she wanted to show off, why didn't she just send the maid?"
"Those earrings are gaudy."
The last one was actually me, because those things are a little over the top. So big, you could bludgeon a small rhino or an extraordinarily large parakeet, I swear.
With these thoughts in mind, I had just enough energy to scream, "Stop looking at me," at everyone behind the meat counter, and hoof it back to the car.
Grocery stores are for yoga and sweatpants only. Let's take a moment to internalize this and then go get the week, people.
Until Next Time, Readers!