Counting down the days until Sandy and I depart Terminal D at DFW for Heathrow.
First, an update from the last post. (For those totally disinterested in my estrogen count, please move on to the next paragraph.) The gel that would keep me from having headaches and hot flashes can take a month to kick in, which should be around the time we board a flight BACK to the US. Send your best wishes and a taser to Sandy, who will have to deal with me abroad.
Now, regarding the trip: Over the past weekend I shopped until it hurt. (Which is about 5 minutes into it for me.) Then I shopped through the pain. I must be going through my second or third childhood because I spent all my time in the Junior’s department trying on jeans and t-shirts. I wasn’t into clothes in high school, so now I want to be either punk or grunge. When I try on “normal” clothes in the Women’s Department I feel as though I am adorning myself in unfulfilled potential and crippling compromise.
So instead of a practical, responsible, mature person’s clothes, I purchased what appears to be Lisbeth Salander’s slightly more upbeat sister’s wardrobe. I even almost purchased her boots.
I was saved when one of my fashion advisors made an astute yet traumatizing Justin Bieber comparison via text in response to this picture I sent pre-purchase. Even if I had been able to brainwash myself out of picturing Justin Bieber as I strolled the streets of London, GOD did not want me to get those boots. How do I know that?
Because as we checked sizes, it turned out every single box of shoes had two different sizes in it, despite the fact they had obviously never been handled before. There was not a matching right and left boot in the correct size. Anywhere.
Maybe Tim Gunn is God.
And yet, I am still inexplicably drawn to those boots. Just like I was to Robert Downey Jr. when he was a drug addled mess.
By Sunday afternoon I was almost packed. Everything was laid out on the bed by category. I was so proud of myself I took a nice long break.
Five hours later, when I needed the bed to sleep in, it all wound up in a giant, unrecognizable lump in the guest bedroom. I guess that’s okay, as soon it will be a giant unrecognizable lump in my suitcase. And then in my hotel room.
Maybe I’ve just discovered the up side of jeans and t-shirts.