Retail Therapy

Yesterday I found myself slumped into the saddest of trenches, for no particular reason other than a new moon cycle. Instead of flopping myself in my studio’s armchair to write, I drove to the mall for an outing probably more expensive than what a therapist would charge for an hour in his armchair. I wandered into the shoe store— something about leather which grounds me, whether the flimsy strapless heels or the closed-toed pumps or walkers. Already lugging two bags, I meander into the lingerie store for silk to accentuate my only remaining middle-age curves, skipping over the thongs and hesitating at the push-up section. I try on four or five pairs of underwear to accentuate my butt area, the part of a woman which shares the secret of her fitness, that I work on each morning at seven. I arrive at the boutique who sells my favorite blouses, gather some more bags, walking out with an almost terminal case of rope burn, until I finally decide it’s time to head back to my car. On my way I stop, smile, and realize there’s no better way to fight trench warfare.