Monday, May 16, 2005

I Don't Care Too Much For Money

I started my morning thinking I was dying, but enter the afternoon comfortable in the knowledge that I'm just a dirty capitalist.

Yesterday I woke up and noticed my arm was really sore. I was pretty positive it wasn't my rigorous power-lifting routine that had my muscles a-burnin'. I took it easy cleaning my room, using only my fully functional right arm to bulldoze my dirty clothes into a chain of disgusting Rockies. I figured I'd probably slept on it funny and decided it would have to feel better tomorrow.

I woke up again this morning with a lessened but still persistent ache in my left arm. I was now slightly worried. Ever since my mom and I used to watch Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, I've been pretty convinced that I'm silently dying of something that is consuming my insides and that whatever that something is will one day be made manifest in a spectacular spray of pus or vomit or fever blisters. Sure, our medicine is more advanced than the frontier science of Dr. Quinn's days, but it won't do any good. I'll have three weeks to live, and I'll spend them laughing half-heartedly at Ellen and trying figure out how best to convey on paper the way I want my hair styled in my coffin.

Anyway, my arm still hurt.

I got to work and read a huge article in the NY Times that was indirectly about class differences, conveyed through three people's experiences with having a heart attack. The old pain-in-the-arm, shortness-of-breath, you-can-never-eat-salt-again heart attack.

Between nine and eleven this morning, I was fully convinced that my heart was about to give out.

I investigated my arm thoroughly. If not a heart attack, it surely had to be some sort of osteosarcoma. [...a manuscript regarding which is sitting on my desk as I type.] It had to be one or the other. I checked for telltale swelling. I was pretty sure the veins in my left arm were too blue until I compared them to my right arm and couldn't find any difference.

When noon hit and I had yet to start sweating profusely, experience chest pain, or slip quietly into sweet dark oblivion, I went back through everything I could've possibly done to make my arm hurt. Sunday...nothing big. Saturday...just a trip to the outlet mall.

Check. I've shopped myself into injury.

It's my bag-carrying arm. The sheer weight of the purchases I dragged around Woodbury Commons outlet mall was so significant I caused myself physical damage. Not that I don't have a job to pay for this stuff, and I don't buy clothes all that often, and I owned about three t-shirts and one pair of jeans that didn't reveal my X-rated parts to passersby, but I really bought a lot. A lot.

Kai and I originally intended to go to the scrubs store to purchase a white uniform for her pinning ceremony, marking her official passage into RN-itude. From the uniform store it was just a hop, skip and a jump to the outlet mall, and from there it was impossible not to buy a twelve dollar skirt! Or three ten dollar shirts! Or the Puma bag I've wanted for three years, or these jeans that are really, really on sale, or these earrings, or everything I could get my hands on in my size at the American Apparel outlet!

At the end of the night, Kai and I found ourselves in the parking lot of the crazy diner rifling through our bags to find a single $2.90 head scarf. It took a good five minutes of searching to find it, and all the while I muttered, "Kai, this is bad...this is really wrong. This...this is not okay. This is...I forgot I bought this! I love this!, this is really wrong."

In my defense, everything I bought was on sale. I got an entire spring wardrobe for what some people spend on a single pair of pants. But still, my inner hungry materialist is at war with my inner crunchy hippie.

"You get paid on Friday! Buy the shirt!" says the materialist.
"You just bought a shirt," says the hippie.
"Not this shirt, though," says the materialist.
"You only donated a hundred dollars to tsunami victims, but you can spend twice that in one day on floppy skirts and tank tops with cowboy boots on them?" says the hippie.
"You don't have a boyfriend," says the materialist.

What does that have to do with anything?! I interject. Lest someone notice I'm talking to myself in the middle of the Gap, I keep it down.

"Money can't buy love!" says the hippie, thrilled at the chance to use that line.
"...but it can buy a skirt!" says the materialist.

That bitch always wins.

If she weren't so imaginary, and my punching arm weren't so sore, she'd really get it.


Anonymous bj said...

Are you giving us a finger on your profile image or am I just a pervert ?

Good blog !

3:06 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

No! I'm actually not (I'm pushing up my glasses with my index finger), but I've always thought it kind of looked like I was flippin' the old bird.

I marvel that it took y'all gutterminds so long to notice.

3:10 PM  
Anonymous mombi said...

i believe in giving the inner bitch free rein

3:21 PM  

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