Confessions of a Blogaholic

Donovan was considering castration the other night, but the cost was prohibitive, so we watched Confessions of a Shopaholic instead. Frankly, I don't remember submitting a screenplay of my life to any Hollywood directors, but I must have, because that movie was an exact replica of my entire existence.

For starters, the main character resides in metropolitan New York, has a quirky roommate and is a published journalist. But the similarity doesn't end there. She also has thick, luxurious hair, perfect skin and a kickin' wardrobe. Crazy, right? I've put a lawyer on retainer so I can sue for my portion of the rights.

Wait a second.

What I meant to say is that what I have in common with the main character is her obsession with fashion, sales, and her resulting credit card debt.

Darn. The other stuff was waaaay more fun.

Actually, I should put my entire interest in fashion and shopping in the past tense. I used to be drawn to the mall like Tiger Woods to a cocktail waitress. I used to be able to lug a 20 pound purse, apply liquid eyeliner, weigh the merits of the inner pocket on a handbag, gab on the phone and suck on a venti sugar free latte all at the same time. Sadly, now all I can do is count on one hand how many times I've been to Macy's in the past two years while watching The People's Court.

It's not that the money has run out (I'm lying). It's just that dressing provocatively doesn't fit my lifestyle anymore. I spent a long time trying not to look like a stay at home mother of two. I'd dash from store to store every weekend snapping up bargains on clothes that would only be appropriate if worn to the Blue Banana after 2:00am and accessorized with slurred speech. My husband used to cringe every time I'd dump out the contents of a bag. I'm convinced he thought I was moonlighting as a sexy decoy on The Maury Show.

But somewhere along the line I lost the thrill of the hunt and my American Express. Constantly taping daring necklines to my decollete was giving me rashes and girdle panties were interfering with my kidney function, so I traded in my sequined silk tanks and tailored skirts for high waisted jeans and cotton tees. If you don't have kids yet and you can't possibly imagine you'll let yourself go, just wait. The descent into comfortable sweaters happens gradually over time. Already gone from heels to flats? I welcome you.

Now if I want to add flair to an outift I wrap a scarf around my neck like an apathetic art student. If I'm going out I put on some outrageous, migraine inducing earrings. And I gave myself one glorious, golden fashion rule: If I can bend over without my underwear being sucked into a crevice faster than a Kleenex in a vacuum, it's a winner. I've never gone wrong.

In repentence, I've given everything from the "old me" away.

Gone is the leopard print trench.
Gone are the pointy-toe knee high boots.
Gone is the black bubble mini skirt.

It's okay, though. My Fruit of the Loom's are right where they are meant to be and I'm not cracking any ribs in Spanx. My husband seems pleased with my inclination toward modesty, as well.

But every once in awhile I think he wouldn't mind a wardrobe malfunction.


(c) 2010, Kelsey Robbins