I can no longer shop for myself.

So, last night I bought a suit.  A $280 Michael Kors’ suit that was marked down to $100.  It is, quite possibly, the most wonderful thing I have ever owned.  I have never felt more beautiful than I do in “THE suit”.  I don’t even think I felt more beautiful at my wedding.  It has a trapeze jacket and the pants are in a teeny tiny size I never thought I would see again.  It is perfect.  And, being that I work and do suit-worthy things, having a nice summer suit is definitely a necessity. 

So, why do I feel like I’m going to throw up every time I think about the price tag?  Why do I keep contemplating running back to return it?  I mean, I have the $100 to spend.  It’s not like I’m going to be eating ramen noodles and Rice-A-Roni for the next month because I bought “THE suit”.  (I may eat ramen noodles, but that is because I LIKE them.  Not because I HAVE to.  Big distinction.)  No, it’s not a money thing at all.  I have become unable to shop for myself.

Would I think twice about blowing $100 on clothes for Sabine?  Clothes she will outgrow in three, maybe less, months?  Nope.  Not at all.  I have done it before and I’m sure I’ll do it again.  I wouldn’t even think twice about dropping $100 on a new dog bed.  I wouldn’t think twice about picking up some Wii game for Brandon while out shopping, to the tune of $60 or so.  But, I can’t spend that on myself.  I have put myself so low on the totem pole I feel as if my needs no longer matter … and my wants CERTAINLY don’t.

Brandon keeps saying, “You DESERVE “THE suit”.”  I deserve it?  I deserve a nap maybe.  An amaretto sour with dinner on Friday.  Do I deserve a $100 suit?  I don’t know.  Brandon practically forced me at pacifier point to buy the stupid thing last night.  Maybe I’ve become too practical.  Maybe I’ve stopped caring about what I look like at all. 

I guess I should be thankful that I have a husband who forces me to take time out for me.  To do little things for myself.  Otherwise I’d be stomping into our next big meeting wearing a spit-up encrusted sweater.  Circa ’02.  That would be good for no one.     


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