Remember that ceremonious unsubscribing to the 111 retail emails I did to kick off the project? Well, it didn’t work. Either they’re not listening or they don’t care. In the last 24 hours, I’ve received 27 of these once enticing, now annoying, gems in my inbox. Oh, and the four catalogs I got in the mail yesterday? Bless your heart, thanks for not letting me forget about that.
What exactly does it take to erase my email address from these retail lists, anyway? Do I need to lay my current address to rest, forcing my hand to create a new email identity-one with an extra “e” or a made-up nickname?
I’m walking around with my chest puffed up a little. It’s been two weeks. I haven’t shopped. I haven’t had my best-friend-in-a-cup Caramel Machiatto. There is a slim chance that the last few mom-and-pop craft stores in the neighborhood have officially lost 30% of their monthly sales.
If I’ve been making any sense until now, here’s where I might lose you. I deemed manicures and pedicures as unnecessary expenditures, but I kept my uber fancy haircuts with the stylist who will only answer to his initials. My logic? Overgrown cuticles and a homegrown manicure are a-ok on the path to self-discovery. A bad, layered haircut like the one I tried to give myself when I was 13? The one that compelled me to lie to my mother afterwards? Fuhgeddaboutit.
I sat on the cold hardwood floor in my bedroom this afternoon to try my hand (no pun intended) as my own manicurist. I contorted my body into all sorts of yoga poses to get the right angle for my pedicure. It looks….like I did it myself. That’s not a pat on the back, in case you’re confused.
