Smashing The Piggy Bank

I've loved clothes for as long as I can remember. I always know exactly what I like when I see it, and when I love an article of clothing, I love it well. I can classify memories by what I was wearing, and what was in my closet at the time.

I used to be kind of a big shopper, back in the days before I got married. This was especially true in college, for two primary reasons:

1. I went to a very high-fashion school, where backbacks were unheard of, unless you counted an $800 Prada tote large enough to fit another student - where sneakers meant collecter's-item, limited-release Nikes that you could only get on eBay, express from Japan, and spiked stillettos were just as common a sight in an 8 AM class. I doubt there is a soul alive who'd be immune to clothes-envy in such an environment. Y firmly maintains that one woman will always give another a dirty look if she likes her shoes. I always disagree just as firmly, claim that clothes-envy simply fuels inspiration, it's motivational.

I was seriously inspired back then.

2. My walk to school, a hop and a skip down 5th Avenue from 23rd to 14th Streets, was basically a crash-course in mid-tier fashion retail, beginning at Club Monaco, ending at Anthropologie, and taking pits stops everywhere you could think of in-between. I don't think I even once took the sprint without making a single detour.

Can I add one more reason? It's a rather significant one:
3. I had "emergency" access to my parent's credit card. EVERYONE I know considers a good sale an emergency.

During that time, I also managed to squeeze quite a few pairs of shoes and articles of clothing - the more expensive ones that I couldn't get away with without asking first - out of my parents under the guise that I would likely soon be going for LOTS of interviews for VERY important and impressive design jobs. Hey, the future was wide open when I was starting Parsons. My parents were proud and excited. I milked it for all it was worth.

Then I met Y. Y dressed really nicely. All of his clothing was expensive. Whereas I was a member of retail therapy/buy-cheap-and-often school of thought, he felt that quality was way more important than quantity, and that making occassional investments was far more cost-effective than shopping disposable trends. It was easy to agree with his line of logic when someone else was footing the bill. [He sounded very intelligent at the time, but might I mention that he later went into Economics on a graduate level and then dropped out of the field? How you like them apples?]

This was fine at first, but then I married Y. We no longer could call upon our generous parents to fund our "investments" in quite the same way. We were, rightfully, embarrassed to. So I became very cheap very quickly, made good use of my purchases from years past.

Y, however, was slower to adapt. And though he didn't buy clothing often, not until he really needed something, when he did, we generally wouldn't be able to eat for a week. If there was something I couldn't resist, he would always encourage me to buy it, even if it clearly wasn't the responsible thing to do. Cut us some slack. We were 21. We weren't doing drugs or partying hard -- living large was simply a matter of smashing the piggy bank.

Now we are out of school. LA is all about who has the coolest sweatpants, so I can happily leave the peer pressure of East Coast haute couture behind. Y is working his ass off at his job. I'm doing my best at the multiple roles I juggle at any given moment. Despite our efforts, we are clearly not rolling in it - yet (dare I dream)- and it feels like all of our income goes towards paying bills, running the treadmill instead of the track.

Some days I can still spend an hour in front of my closet - three-quarters of its contents already strewn on the bed - declare that I have NOTHING I like, that I hate ALL my clothes, but I've learned not to care too much about them anymore, and seldom do I have time to shop even on the days before our tax refund is spent. I've always liked to browse alone, with nobody there to give me an opinion or raise their eyebrows and glance at their watch, and as I'm always on a time constraint, the thrill of the chase is mostly gone. The sight of my children's faces is more or less that of a GIGANTIC WATCH, and since they're usually where I am, I skip all unnecessary shopping, focus on getting groceries in the fridge.

Since he started working steadily, Y has become EXTREMELY tight with money, and anyone who knows him can appreciate what a metamorphosis that is. Watching Y move from boy to man has become a bit of a recurring theme in my posts - same principle here.

That's all good, right? I should be really happy that we're on the same page, right? I know. I mean, I am. Pretty much. But now, whenever I do want to treat myself with something small (and by small I do mean relatively inexpensive, but I'm a girl and GIRLS HAVE NEEDS), I feel so incredibly guilty.

I went to Target today - TARGET - and Y caught me. I really loved the brief Luella Bartley run they had there, and I just wanted to check if there were any of her pieces leftover. And this Isaac Mizrahi skirt I got there fits me really well so I wanted to see if they had it in black, too. And Elan really needed more Power Ranger underpants, because he's only got two pairs and he refuses to wear any others EVEN IF THE FAVORED TWO ARE NOT CLEAN, and that is a fashion/parental crisis if there ever was one, right? So I went, knowing my real reasons, but feeling somewhat justified because of the underpants. I was supposed to be working.

He called my cell during the one hour I was there (I swear, he has cameras on me or something) and the conversation went like this:

Y: Where are you?
Me: Oh...Target.
Y: Target? Why? What are you getting?
Me: Just some junk.
Y: I'm so glad my wife believes in paying good money for "just junk..."
Me: Uh...entering a parking garage...losing reception...CALL YOU LATER, KISS KISS!

As my brother-in-law would say, "The TABLES have TURNED."