Holy Consumer Hell, Batman!

Saturday afternoon, feeling motivated and also a little peckish for some shopping, I realized that, hmmmmm, yes, I am ready to start dating.

You know what that means, ladies.

New underwear. You buy new underwear when you are ready to dive into a new relationship, or to even put yourself back on the market. God forbid you should take someone home when you're wearing last year's grayed-out Lilyette with the underwire that's been poking you under your boob for six weeks. Or when you're down to your last pair of underpants and are forced to wear the granny gutchies that you keep hidden in the back of your underwear drawer. (Why do you have them, again?)

So I'm feeling a little, I don't know, hungry or something. Not necessarily for a relationship, but for something. Regular companionship. Regular sex, for god's sake.

Natale doesn't count. He was a test relationship, total time spent together over 7 weeks, approximately 36 hours. Not really a relationship of any kind. Not to mention, the sex was a disaster of epic proportions. How is it that you can be completely physically attracted to someone, only to have it all fall apart when the naked happens? To him, I think I was just some person transporting a pair of tits that he was enamored with. I was their driver.

So, no, Natale wasn't enough to inspire me to buy new bras and underpants. In fact, I called him AFTER buying the bras and underpants and ended it.

(By the way, does anyone call them underpants anymore?)

So, I headed to Macy's. During a sale. On a Saturday. In the rain.

Perhaps I should have gotten stoned before I went. Maybe it would have mellowed me out.

At any rate, when you see that your favorite brand and style of bra is on sale for less than twenty bucks, you stock up. Men will never know. Once, in a fit of passion, Rocky ripped my bra off my body. What came out of my mouth, instead of a gleeful "oooh" was "Hey! That was a fifty dollar bra!"

But I digress.

Anyhow, you've got to love a new bra. When I wear a new bra, it's like I've been issued a new pair of boobs. Seriously. They just look better. Perkier or something.

The most serious mistake of the day, however, was going to the fragrance department. With the noise, smells and lights, I felt like I was trapped inside a pinball machine, being caromed from one Spritzer Person to another. They kept looming in front of me like apparitions out of a horror movie, wielding their bottles, forcing me to throw my hands up to protect my eyes. Finally, all I could do to protect myself was blurt out to one of them, "Michael Kors!"

Like I said, I shoulda been stoned.