I just went to the mall with bags and came home with nothing.
I’d bought a pair of low-rise wool pants that I really loved, but when I put them on at home, the low-rise appeared to come from the lifting and separating of my buttocks and I just couldn’t live like that.
The other return was a belt that Adam bought me at Burberry, and I was thinking about returning it and getting a wallet—my current wallet, which Adam also bought me, is now ten years old. But none of the wallets were small enough or had the right configuration of credit card slots, enclosures, etc., and they all cost about a hundred dollars more than the belt.
We’re supposed to exchange small gifts at Christmas, so as not to be wrapped up in the endless present-giving vortex of Valentine’s Day, Anniversary, Birthday, Christmas, Ground Hog’s Day, etc. So Adam obviously broke the rule, yet he’ll be annoyed when he learns that I came home with nothing.
Even though the sun’s come out today and we’re going out with friends tonight, I feel little besides bleakly confused right now, and Burberry seemed filled with too many frivoulous choices. Is a cashmere-lined trench coat that’s perfectly cut worth $795? Probably not, but what if you wear it for the rest of your life? And what if the rest of your life’s not very long? Will your daughter wear it one day, and think, my mother had excellent taste? These were the thoughts I was having, only about blue nova-check wallets. Which I still really want, frankly.
I keep pressing my hands against my forehead today, trying to calm myself, only to find that my eyebrows have transferred themselves to the sides of my index fingers. I’m so tired of all this.