Obsession

Lately I've been playing this game with myself where I decide what I'm going to do as soon as I have twenty dollars. Things that often come up are: Eat, tap with Charlie, or put it towards a new DVD player.... the usuals. Eating typically wins, unless I see something shiny catch my eye at a chic-boutique. 

I have decided, after being sufficiently racially profiled at Strawberry, my next purchase is going to be a sweater. (And for the record, NO I am not paying $12 for a Mary Tyler Moore hat! SUCK ON IT.) My cohort Rafik was in town a few weeks back, and we were talking about fashion as it applied to our personal tastes. She doesn't like colors, (because, quote, "everyone wears them") and I'm not a big fan of anything that wasn't made for a 70 year old. I say this with earnest. Earnest and truthfulness. 

I embody the 65 year old gardener, out and about planting daisies in gaudy orange crock-enstocks. (Brikies+crocs. A must have for every style offender and casual crazy neighbor...) I'm the woman with the tacky reading glasses attached to her bosom with the even tackier necklace; I sit in corner coffee shops wearing neutral knits that make me look more than three quarters my age... 

And you know what? I don't even care. 

Am I in the fashion capital of the United States? 

Yes. 

Am I breaking every rule of style set by every staunchy fashionista in history? 

Absolutely. 

Am I that creepy bag-lady esque woman you shouldn't let your kid sit next to on the bus? 

Possibly. Depending on my last appointment with an apparatus designed for bathing. 

Most children, when asked what they want to be upon arrival of adulthood give stock answers like, "fireman", "ballerina", or "doctor." I stand firmly by my choice, and will for the rest of existence. 

"Well, Monty, what would you like to be when you grow up?" 

"A cat lady."