The anxiety pills are going down a little too easily these days. I’ll have to stop them soon as they’re not safe for any chromosomally doomed pregnancy I could possibly achieve. Post-thirty-ninth-birthday: the hypomanic and destitute infertile awakens, drinks her morning coffee and numbs out, only to suddenly remember she’s set a little money aside to fucking go shopping! Giddy with excitement, she buys a vegan leather backpack. I’m tired of my beat up American Apparel book bag–since I live within walking distance of pretty much anywhere I’d need to go, and since Olympia has enacted a ban on plastic shopping bags, I often find myself stuffing my purchases in the book bag and looking like a homeless shoplifter as I enter my next destination. I figure if my back pack is a little classier, I won’t be mistaken for a transient methamphetamine addict carrying her life’s possessions from store to store.
Completely neurotic reasoning, but I gotta go with what I’ve got. My husband on the other hand, will stuff the things he plans to buy in his pockets, carefully emptying them and placing them on the conveyor belt at Safeway and paying for everything honestly. I’d be too scared to, say, jam cans of unpaid merchandise in my pockets even if I did plan to pay for it, someone would surely alert store security and humiliation would ensue.
Anyway, I love vegan leather because in Western Washington it rains a lot, so the artfully textured plastic of the bag will also keep my shit dry. I feel a hint of self-righteousness at making such a practical purchase. Surely, I will be a far superior mother if one of my babies miraculously lives. Just look at my grown up backpack!