Fallin' for Fall: Confessions of a Reformed Shopaholic

Call it selfish, narcissistic, or just plain irresponsible in these tougher times, but this girl’s got a case of the “gimmies” in a bad way. Confession of a shopaholic: it’s feelin’ like fall and I’m fallin’ hard for fabulous fashions. And just when I thought the Mommy in me (you know, the gene you magically get that you become self-sacrificing and put all means toward your family and children) was setting in, my soul was sucked away by the upcoming season’s gem tones, grayed handbags, high-heeled boots and a brisk stroll through Nordstrom.

How it all started: on a particularly preggo-filled day, I decided to beat the blues by visiting Barnes and Noble and getting in touch with my inner Mommy. Instead, I was stopped dead in my tracks at the rows of fashion magazines, my white hot chocolate beginning to dribble out of my mouth at the blazing beauties that stunned their covers. From jewels to handbags, jeans to shoes, I was instantly reverted to my old Meganesque ways that had me yearning for an endless supply of cash, a quick flight to Chicago, a fabulous pair of heels and a game plan to cover all my favorite boutiques and department stores along Michigan Avenue. Attempting to fight the urge, I instead grabbed a “Pregnancy Fitness” magazine and pretended to flip through the pages (could this explain why I’ve only been on one 20-minute walk in the past week?). Giving up, I practically moonwalked my way back to the beauty and entertainment section. There, I greedily scooped up the basics: Vogue, Elle,Lucky, People Fashion, Glamour, Marie Claire and oh so much more. Guiltily, I tiptoed my way into a corner and tucked myself into a plush chair, giving props to myself that it was at least close to the pregnancy and child care section of the store. For hours, I poured through the glossy pages, taking time to breathe in the scent of the perfumes that lined the binding, drooling over the thin figures dressed in coutoure, marking the Lucky pages with the ridiculous stickers such as “Need! Maybe! Yes! No!” and jotting down recommended web sites for those that can actually afford an $800 dress. Ignoring the continuous vibrating of my cell phone (which is so mean when you’re nine months pregnant and you’re husband is wondering where the heck you are), I lavished in all things unessential, picturing my non-pregnant body laced with just-the-right-cut sweaters, feet propped in knee-high purple suede boots, the latest designer bag outlined in studs dangling from my wrist and the most fabulous accessories and undergarments to match. Sashaying down the street, my makeup impeccable due to Gina’s fine skills and love of Nars, the just-released Burberry scent following my every move…

“Um, mam – are you done reading all of these?” said the irritated Barnes and Noble associate, a look of “you currently weigh a gzillion pounds and have a round tummy – ain’t nothing you can buy anytime soon in those magazines you’re now forcing me to put away” look on her face.

Snapping back to reality, a deep sigh escapes from within and I say…”yes, yes I am” and waddle over to buy Little Choate the latest Sandra Boyd hard copy.

Lesson learned: you can apply the Dave Ramsey and baby pressures to the girl, but you can’t take the shopaholic soul out of the woman.

Note: my list of “if I had a million dollars to spend on fashion” has grown to include Nordy’s purple suede boots, at least three of the 12 sweaters mocking me from the second floor, a fabulous new lip gloss, a chunky, metallic ring, purple Uggs, a ginormous Marc Jacobs tote, every fun scarf imaginable, sunglasses the size of Texas and lined with rhinestones, a bump-it, a face full of fresh, sassy yet professional dresses lined with ruffles, darker, skinny jeans, the boyfriend blazer, any layered look for Baby Choate and oh so much more.

I’m off to quench my thirst by watching “The Devil Wears Prada” for the eleventh time…at least that will be a lot cheaper!