Buying Stuff for a Life I Don't Live

I have a wonderful imaginary life about being that kind of a mother.

For the date with my husband, I'd worn a skirt and heels. It was one of those occasions I hold in my mind when I'm shopping; the holy grail of occasions for which to get dressed; my husband and I are going out on the town; we're going to dinner and a show, and I can dress up. Mission accomplished.

The best part of our date was in the morning, however, when my husband and I got up at 6 a.m. and went for a run together. The air was thick and muggy, even at that early hour, and visible moisture deposits floated over the soybean fields. We were both dripping within minutes, and breathing too heavily even to speak. But by the time we made it back to the house, we were both feeling the endorphins and the mutual relief of having worked for our rest. We sat on the front porch to cool down. We said our prayers. When the sweat dried, we drank coffee. Then he had to get going to work, and I to pick up our children.

And it occurs to me that the real life that our particular family prefers living is one that doesn't accommodate fine clothes, and needs actually, very few clothes at all. I am a less involved and loving mother when I'm done up like a movie star. 

So away with the Tods loafers, and twenty other pairs of shoes I've collected over the years. Away with five purses. Away with three pairs of boots, with six pairs of earrings, with a scarf, two skirts, two aprons, and a number of tops.

The consignment shop took about 2/3rds of my offerings, and priced the entire lot at somewhere near $200, of which, if it all sells, I stand to make half. It's not really a way to get rich, buying clothes and reselling them. But it's not a way to be free, compulsively shopping and stuffing things in any available space in the house.

I don't want to be a vulture anymore.