My City, My Sins.
To know me is to know how I shop.
No girlfriends, sugar-daddies or indecisive sisters. Forget coffee breaks, credit limits and work calls. I won’t cave, or come home, ‘til I’ve found fate in a frock, god in good jeans and kisses from a cashier who made me look like Kate Moss. No deep breaths before I’m out of Barney’s, on the F train, looking frail, figuring out how much crap I’ll actually keep.
Spending money I don’t have on stuff I don’t need. It’s not frequent; it’s not out of control. And even if it were, I am the master of my own MasterCard. This is my city - home of my unwanted hair removal, my unlimited metro-pass, my unflappable friends - I’ll blow cash where I want.
These are my streets - where I find my sample sales, sedatives and hot stones. Where, for 15 years, I splurged, sobbed, sex-text’ed and shlepped. Where today I rode the train, reading the quintessential NY columnist, Lisa Kogan, thinking “I am her!” - just less sassy, less successful and less worried about my weight (most likely, those things are related).
I am here, sans Spike, where the foodies can’t find me. Where the only apron is on my mother. Where I’ll wait at Wichcraft for my chicken-salad sandwich, the only exception for mayo’ to enter my bloodstream, and where an hour ago, some dude said my pants were undone.
I am home with my rude bags and bedraggled hair. Home to unload, unwind and transform from Material Girl to my Father’s Daughter. I am both. I am me. I am broke.
