Waaaayyyyy back in December 2008, I earned my doctorate.
Technically, my name is Dr. Egan.
The only time I use the “Dr.” title is when I have to call an MD’s office and I want a guarantee that they’ll call me back.
Because I’ve learned that MD’s are unlikely to call back regular folk. Like educators.
Anyway, after my successful dissertation defense, my sister-in-law Jen asked me what I was going to do to celebrate my accomplishment, particularly since I didn’t bother to attend my graduation ceremony.
My first thought was, “I’m going to take a nap and then spend an evening watching TV. Duh.”
Then I suggested that maybe I’d treat myself to a hoity-toity handbag, like this sweet little Kate Spade:
She fully approved.
Anyway . . . months went by. The Eddie Bauer diaper bag continued to be lugged around. Years went by . . . still no decadent handbag.
Why, you ask? Aside from the fact that Drew would have probably killed me, I couldn’t help but think of the adorable red cows that were probably slaughtered for all that yummy leather and all the starving children in Haiti who could have used that $400.00 to buy their own handbag.
After several visits went by, I think my sister-in-law saw the writing on the wall and realized that I was unlikely to purchase a handbag that was more valuable than my entire shoe collection.
However, this past Thanksgiving, Jen mentioned how a good pair of jeans can make the difference between a should-not-have-eaten-those-last-twelve-handfuls-of-caramel-popcorn ass and a oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-you-spend-anytime-sitting-and-hiding-that fabulous-thing ass.
My ears perked up. Jeans? I wear jeans! And I totally just ate 12 handfuls of caramel popcorn! What a coincidence!
I mentally reviewed my current supply of jeans. Let’s see. I have my jeans from Old Navy. Another pair from Old Navy. One from Ann Taylor that stretched out after I wore them once so now they look like pants that Milli Vanilli would have worn, and a pair from The Limited that would look totally awesome if they didn’t have a big hole in the crotch from that time I slid off a park bench that had a nail sticking out.
No, she meant jeans like 7 for All Mankind jeans. Or Citizens of Humanity jeans. Or Joe’s Jeans. The kind that cost nearly $200 and must be hemmed. I don’t mean they must be hemmed because I’m only 5″ 1′ and I have to hem most pants. No, they purposely make them long enough to accommodate women who are 6″5′ so everyone has to hem them. It’s like, a rite of passage.
Anyway, after the whole, “sorry your husband dumped you during the holidays” conversation, she shifted the conversation to talk about the therapy. The type of therapy that relies on less on emotions on more on visualization.
VISUALIZATION OF MY ASS, that is.
Specifically, JEANS retail therapy.
Because Nathan was in town this weekend for business, she sent him to me with clear instructions to TAKE TARA TO THE MALL AND DON’T LET HER LEAVE WITHOUT SOME KICK-ASS JEANS.
She knows that a woman whose ass looks awesome is more likely to have an awesome life.
She’s an engineer, and super smart, so I believe her. Plus, she has a great ass and is super cheerful, so I’ve decided that she’s a good case study.
(Note: Case studies are an important part of SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH, folks. And I have my doctorate, so its like, mandatory that I do case studies.)
So, my brother and the kids trekked to South Park Mall, where I have been exactly twice since moving to Charlotte nearly 4 years ago. Once to take Dylan to visit Santa when he was 5 months old, and once to meet some ladies from Modern Parent to get a picture.
I tried on about 50 pairs of jeans, gawked at the price tag, tried them all on again, and then bought two pairs; one pair was a 7 for All Mankind, and one was a Citizens for Humanity.
Drew is going to pass out when he sees the credit card bill. I have never been so wasteful with money throughout our entire marriage. I’m hoping that because the store names have the words “all mankind” and “humanity” in them, he’ll think that I got all noble and donated money to starving children in Haiti. Or to the Save the Red Cows Association.
(Note: While I was navigating the too-long jeans, Nathan was teaching the kids how to bark like dogs in public and spin pennies on their sides. Whatever.)
I think this was the first time that I’d ever gone shopping with a man and two children and not heard endless complaining or had to take the kids into the dressing room with me. Shopping is super fun when you’re not hissing at your son to stop crawling under the dressing room door and commenting on other people’s clothing choices while your daughter is rummaging through your purse and trying to read your text messages.
Anyway, so now I have about $400.00 worth of jeans sitting in a bag on my bed. I’m going to try them on AGAIN and decide if I should return them, keep only one pair, or stomp on the remnants of my marriage by keeping both pairs.
Regardless of which I choose, I think I might wait for the credit card bill to arrive just to see if some passing out occurs.