I’m sure that fanatics are going to rise up out of the woodwork to let me know how incredibly blasphemous and despicable it is that I altered a Bible verse for my own selfish purposes, but I’m going to go ahead and put it out there… I’ve come a long way since my days at Camp Travis and Tabernacle revivals. (Quick detour: when I as in the 7th grade, my friend Mary and I decided to get saved because we learned that the one-on-one “spirit sessions” overlapped with silent prayer time. Should we sell our souls to Jesus we would be exempt from eye fucking every fifteen-year-old God boy in the praise tent to pass the time. Needless to say I dont think either of us have gone on to do good works…)
Anyway. A few nights ago I was watching an MTV True Life marathon in order to avoid doing the work that pays my rent. After watching gay boys join the football team, hermaphrodites win beauty pageants, and cheerleaders learn to go to school without makeup, I was absentmindedly tuned in to watch True Life: I’m a Compulsive Shopper. I immediately knew that if it were anywhere near as delicious as True Life: I’m in Debt I was in for a real treat. After watching that particular episode I was inspired to go out into the world and spent some cash, mostly because I wasn’t in debt nearly as bad as those hot messes. True Life rarely disappoints, and within hours I was enraptured with the story line: two girls cant stop shopping. The hubs delicately pointed out that if you’re going to have a compulsion like that you better look like a fucking super model all the time, but it seemed that our little friend from Long Island preferred to accrue her debt buying endless supplies of Juicy Couture sweats and black hair dye. Eh.
The real true life was the eerie kinship I began to feel for these women.
Holy fucking shit. ( I realized.)
True Life: iCaroline is a compulsive shopper.
It was a painful realization. There was a point during the viewing when the hubs and I were angry and sad (respectively) watching the young girls sit on their fully-stocked-closet floors and weep out of longing for the perfect pair of black boots. Not the really high ones, or the sort of high ones. Not the knee high ones, or the calf ones. The ankle ones wouldnt work and the ones that were the right height didnt have the right heel. How could they ever leave the house?
I reviewed my findings with a good friend the next day over lunch. I probably could have turned a blind eye to the problem for the better part of my life had True Life avoided the black boot scenario; however I myself was coming off a black boot bender and after having purchased six or so pairs I still wasnt entirely sure I had a pair for any occasion. As I told him this I realized what an error I made. It was not unlike spouting specific methodology for snorting cocaine to a person you mistakenly assumed was a lover of the powder. It was clear that he was unfamiliar with dressing anxiety, and therefore couldnt be my support system.
Instead he issued a challenge: no purchasing of footwear or apparel until 1/30/09.
I took his challenge and swore an oath (and teared up a little as I said the words), and thus began the next three months of my life. And the next big plot on HTWL.