There's no way to express just how proud I am of myself for spending $453.68 dollars in 40 minutes today. God, I'm good.
Needing to escape the confinement (self-imposed) of my house, I asked my mom if we could go shopping. I've been needing to buy new pants since before school started, and now that it's getting cooler, I thought it was time to venture to the mall. I'm not one to shop, with exceptions to books and music products. There was a time when I practically lived at the mall, but that was before my dad left, when we had money.
Now, my mom and I are just holding on. Being without an extensive amount of cash has taught me valuable lessons, like how to shop less and save more. Still, there are times when I just need to floss my dough right into the cash register at my favorite store.
Of course, my anxiety tends to keep me from venturing into crowds. I hate having panic attacks while I'm out, but they do happen and cause me a lot of grief. What are you suppose to do when you're suddenly hit with one and just cannot move at all? Well, obviously you just stand (or sit) there, but not without soliciting stares from perfectly good strangers, not to mention confused looks coming from your companion(s). Sometimes I get paranoid and think that a lot of those strangers are staring at me or talking about me. I know that sounds completely self-centered, but you've got to understand that I (1) hate being stared at and (2) hate being talked about behind my back--especially since my mind tends to obess and blow such situations out of proportion. In short, I just get paranoid.
The CIA might not be after me, but the tall chunky guy at 3 o'clock and his short companion with teeth that reflect objects better than the mirror in my bathroom certainly do seem to be looking my way, grinning from ear to ear, and did I just see one of them point at me?!
Nevertheless, I just felt compelled to go shopping and shopping I went. Within those 40 minutes, I bought like five pairs of jeans, two pairs of twill pants, two skirts (one jean, one twill), three tops, and two bras.
After my mom charged my purchases to her charge card, we traveled to the Olive Garden for dinner. I think that my mom was so surprised that I wanted to get out of the house, much less with her, that she decided to treat me to my favorite restaurant.
As I sat across from my mom, I couldn't help but notice just how out of place she looked. Mama is one of those people who sometimes looks like the Walmart rejects from Jerry Springer. Today was one of those times. Not only did she have on a white T-shirt that represented the Wakulla Bank, coffee stains and all, but she added a pair of her favorite bicycle type shorts from Walmart, as well. The shorts weren't all spandex, though they're made with a bit of the stretch stuff, but were mostly cotton. The design is what seals the deal, though. There are these tear drop shapes on the shorts that are made up of the colors orange, pink, black, white, and red.
Needless to say, my mom looked like a hick that couldn't dress. The saddest part is that she doesn't seem to notice (quite often she leaves the house with similar outfits on). I guess that's a good thing for her, but it does make me feel bad. The stage where being around your parent(s) is extremely embarrassing has came, went, and gone, but I can't help but think about all of the beautiful clothes that fill mama's closet and wonder what doesn't click in her head.
My awareness of physical appearance is highly sensitive. I don't obsess about the way that I look as bad as I use to, but I am very aware of the clothes that I buy and how they look on me, etc., etc. It's important for me to feel as if I look decent, even when I'm just lounging around the house. My mom doesn't seem to care or notice. I don't mind that she doesn't notice, but I do wonder why she (doesn't seem to) care how she looks. In the past few years, her appearance has dropped quite a bit. She doesn't style her hair anymore--and the cut that she sports does nothing for her face. She no longer dresses in her nice clothes, opting for bicycle pants and T-shirts--very seldom matching. She complains about being fat, but I seriously doubt that she weighs over 150 pounds.
All in all, she could at least try to keep up a certain type of appearance. As it is, she looks like she just swung open the front door of her mobile home, located in a country hick trailer park, walked over to the K-Mart or Walmart, and bought Kathy Ireland blue light specials.
That's something that I just can't stand--her letting herself go. I might be fat, but at least I try to look decent (and I succeed most of the time.)
Conversation at the Olive Garden was dull. Actually, I should rephrase that: There was no conversation while at the Olive Garden. It's completely sad, but it seems as though mama and I have nothing to say to one another. I could've talked my head off about Baboo, but she wouldn't understand the circumstances of our relationship. She certainly wouldn't like how we became to know one another. I could've informed her of the latest happenings concerning my friends, but quite frankly I don't know what the latest happenings are. Of my school friends, I only keep in close contact with Christina and Tiffany, and I don't really talk to either girl unless I'm in school. It's not as if I don't want to, it's just that I'm not too keen on the use of telephones and I don't often go out during the weekends, so I feel no need to bore them with calls from me.
Baboo's like the only person I've talked to on the phone longer than 15 minutes in the past few months.
So, we sat through dinner in silence. That suited me just fine, though. I was lost in thoughts that raced around my brain, so it's not as if I was bored. I use to be a very extroverted person, always the life of the party, but then I grew up, became avoidant, and have a general dislike for people--which transformed me into a very introverted person.
I don't mind, though. My thoughts keep me content, and as long as they do that I don't see any reason why I should change.
That pretty much concludes this entry. I will now spell check it, turn off my computer, and head for my room, where The Love Below (Andre 3000 of Outkast) is dying to be played by my stereo and Franz Kafka awaits me.
Listening To:
Speakerboxxx/ The Love Below - Outkast
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