Umm, guys?

I woke up this morning from many long REM dreams thinking “Hmm, you know what I need? A pair of chestnut shoes. Like, a rich, spicy chestnut, to balance out the strawberry blonde hair . . . and I’d like them to be flats, really, for ease of use, but I don’t want them to be patent, I’m thinking suede-y?*”

And then slow, dull panic set in and quickly rose to a fever pitch as I realized;

1. I have only three days to make any more purchases.

2. I’m working tonight and seeing a play tomorrow night.

3. WHAT IF I AM MISSING SOMETHING?

Adding to that that my tights are disappearing into the massive pile of laundry by the dresser and don’t seem to be re-emerging; I dug through (oh come on, we all do it) a few days ago to find a brown pair to hand-wash, and though I remember having at least four pairs in various shades of mocha, I could not find a single one.

This is not about the stuff itself, of course, so much as it is about being afraid of not having that thing to fall back on – that little tiny vice I know is bad for me, but it makes me feel good  . . . .

I believe it’s going to be so good for me to face my clothing demon and get dressed every morning celebrating that I have enough, to get use of out of all my clothes, to enjoy the pretty things I have. I believe I can transfer all this covetous energy to my creative work or to my day job, I can work harder, I can do better. I think breaking myself of this cyclic addiction is wise and good and will give me a better foundation for my (impending) actual adulthood.

But oh god, why did I agree to go cold turkey???

I want extra tights (in some fun prints!) I want chestnut shoes! I want that skirt I put back on the rack after trying it on several times and each time concluded it was too long but suddenly now I MUST HAVE IT.

(And in a nutshell, ladies and gentleman, I have made my own argument for addiction and lunacy. Feel free to have me committed to the Betty Ford. Alternately, you can submit me to the scary TLC show about women who eat laundry detergent and their own hair.)

I’m going to have a marvelous birthday. I’m going to love and wear everything I own. I’m going to thoroughly, thoroughly enjoy this beautiful year of being alive, and I refuse to be cowed in the face of my dependency; I will delight in what I have, and I will not spend 365 days counting down until I can finally buy something new.

They’re just clothes. They’re for wearing, and expressing myself through them makes me happy, and I will be none the less confident, or joyful, or excited or delighted because I happen to not be wearing something new.  

(I figure, if I don’t document the (embarrassing) panic, I’m not telling the whole story.)

I will not be cowed. I will conquer my silliness. I will let go of my compulsion that I can renovate my life through buying things, and I will let enough be enough. I will find enough within enough.

(Is this what giving up smoking is like, ex-smokers?)

I’m gonna buy a petticoat, and some tank tops, and a couple of pairs of socks, and all will be well. 

(andmaybeI’llcheckoutzapposforsomecheapchestnutflats.*)

(Okay. okay. Be brave, you silly girl.)

(As my grandfather would have said, “There’s only one bloody fool there.”)

*But not loafers, more like a very classic ballet shape . . . .and without a light-colored sole? and definitely in a sort of gingerbready, pigment-heavy color, without being too dark or an outright brown . . . .