"I'm having a crisis"

That's how my text started to Katie this afternoon. I was distraught and confused and maybe a little bit scared.

But let me start from the beginning.


WC and I had a great dinner last night at one of my favorite spots. We then finished the night on a patio drinking beers and watching the homeless people ask the folks on the patio at the super fancy restaurant adjacent to us for money... or a lighter... or a bite. (Some neighborhoods aren't meant for fine dining on a patio.)

We walked home. It was a beautiful and easy night. Because I'd had 2 beers over the course of the evening and I'm old, I didn't make it through even one episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer before crashing out. (Yeah, I'm watching the series, again. Shut up. It's good shit.)

And then I woke up at 4:00 a.m. Then 5:00. Then 6... and you get the gist. Each wake up I was in a panic. Why is everything horrible? Why, oh why, am I dating a man who is allergic to cats? Why am I thinking about buying a house? That's a terrible idea. I should stay here forever. Alone. Why do people at work think I know anything? I don't know anything? Is it too early for pie? 

When I finally got up at 8:30 I remembered the beers and was reminded WHY I don't drink beer. If not for the often gluten-based bloating that results, or my miraculous ability to gain a whole pound for each and every beer I consume, I always wake up the next day thinking everything is the worst it's ever been.

Once I diagnose myself with post-beer-depression (PBD) I know I have to just drag myself around the day in punishment for last night's fun. (Please note that PBD isn't a hangover. I had two beers... not 3.)

I knew if I spent time at home I'd feel guilty not working and with PBD, working is the least helpful thing. I went to yoga. I went to the farmer's market and got food from a truck and bought almond butter from a nice local vendor and then a chai. I wasn't feeling better. But I wasn't feeling worse. And I'd still managed to not do any work so that was good.

Then I went to the mall. And this is where everything falls apart.

I walked in Teavana. Have you ever been in there? They're very tiny store fronts full of loose leaf tea. I really like tea and I'm out of the tea Katie had gotten me for my birthday... ummm... 3 years ago? So I go in and there are at least a half dozen 19 year olds waiting to help me. And they're staring. So I tell them what I'm looking for. And they all continue to stare. Is this what rush week feels like? Am I being hazed?

And then the nice girl behind the counter starts pulling these giant tubs of tea off the wall and wafting their scents at me and I got overwhelmed so I told her to use her best judgement. She packaged my mixture of monkey-something-or-other and spicy-smells-like-candy-tea. I had refused the upsell of two containers and asked for half a container. When she said $70 I just figured I'd misheard. $17 seemed like a deal, but I went with it.

And then I looked at the receipt after I'd left and it was indeed $70. I spent SEVENTY FUCKING DOLLARS ON TEA! There's not gold in it... maybe monkeys, but I shouldn't have to pay extra for monkeys. But it's my fault. I never asked her what it would cost. I could have.

I wandered around Anthropologie... Loft... and was just too depressed about my $70 worth of tea to shop. I found myself picking up jeans at Madewell and wandering, further depressed, into the dressing room.

I sat down. And stood up. And sort of rocked back and forth. I can't process this alone. I need help. 

So I texted Katie: I'm having a crisis. I might buy skinny jeans. Intervene!

Katie: Melissa, someone is spamming me from your phone! She wants to buy skinny jeans.

Me: I also bought $70 in tea. I'm not of sound mind. 

Katie: Tell me how you feel about George W Bush. Sanity check. 

Me: I don't know anymore. 

Katie: Oh my god. Where are you? I'm on my way. 

Me: ...Hurry

Katie: Do not go in Coldwater Creek. I repeat. Do not go in Coldwater Creek. 

But it was too late for me. I bought skinny jeans. And $70 tea. And now I'm sitting on my couch in my underwear feeling invincible. And a little trapped.

I'm trapped because Mr Darcy is laying on
my left arm. I could pretend he's trying
to console me, but he's not. He's jus a pain
in the ass. 

Note: I am not opposed to skinny jeans, per se, but as a girl with wide hips and chunky thighs, I could not imagine squeezing myself into anything called "skinny" and not feeling horrid. I don't know if my PBD empowered me or if I just finally found a pair that look good, because I can assure you I've not lost weight or width. All my curves remain as they have been since skinny jeans became a thing.