I’ve decided to be fancy. Just a little.

The other day I went to Neiman’s (I think that’s how you spell it) and had a big, eye-opening experience. I walk in wearing my not even very cute workout gear and head straight for the Jo Malone counter, because that’s the ONLY reason I was there. Fortunately, it was very close to the door I came trucking through. I know exactly what I want but also wanted to get a “woof” of a few other delightful blends. I can tell the super sophisticated and sassy saleslady was trying to sway me away from the blend I wanted, which, yes, I did notice, I just pretended I didn’t.

I stuck to MY plan and she generously threw in a few samples of the other ones.

So, I am ready to pay and am looking for my debit card and she says, “would you like to put this on your Neiman’s, Nieman’s whatever, account?” How sweet to assume I have one- CUZ I DON’T.

I politely decline.

“We take American Express, Neeman’s, or a check.”

“You don’t take debit?” (so classy- I don’t usually sound “Texan” but that time I think I did.)

“No, we only take Kneemins, American Express, or a check.”

“WHAT?! You take a check but you won’t withdraw money straight from my account with a debit card?!” (EVERY ounce of my energy went to NOT saying, “Get the fuck out of here, are you fucking serious, seriously, no DEBIT?!”) Hey, I guess I am classy.

I had no problem writing a check, I am just the type to really understand things. And things I don’t understand REALLY baffle me. With the exception of politics, my husband’s need to use everything I say against me, and why “they” insist on using those sticker labels on things that you have to spend 45 minutes scrubbing off with soap and water- it’s really not worth it. Some things I will just never understand and have to let go of.

Anyway, I probably spelled Neemen’s wrong on my check, and I bet it was a dead give-away that I don’t frequent those fancy-like places. She was sweet to me but on to me.

In all of 15 minutes, I judged at least 6 people.

I left there spanking myself.

My punishment is that I have to go back and this time- ENJOY IT.

I realized that I (capital I) was the one being judgmental. I was the one with the problem. So, now I am to go again and just be fucking normal.

Apparently I have some issues with those kinds of people. Which only keeps ME from ever being one of those people who get to have whatever they want and spend extravagantly and don’t even care about the starving kids in Africa. See what I mean, where is this coming from?! Who poisoned my head with this nonsense?

I mean, I do the same thing- I fill my cart with all kinds of unnecessary items- only it’s at Target.

Now that I’m out of the “money doesn’t grow on trees, you ungrateful little snot” childhood time warp, I can see all of this. And I take pride in being a very accepting, I’m okay/you’re okay type of person.

So I’m going to march back in there young lady and ooze pure love.

This time I will feel like one of the regulars and whip out my checkbook before directed.

This incident has ignited a new, self-torture kind of challenge.
I am going to do something fancy every Friday. Something I wouldn’t normally do (or place I wouldn’t usually go) for whatever reason.

First, I’m going to get a manicure and pedicure.

That’s right.

It is on.

(Am I the only woman on the planet who is a mani/pedi virgin?)

I feel strongly about holding out for just the right woman I’ve never met to be so intimate with my extremities. SERIOUSLY- I don’t like the idea of someone touching my feet. This is how I knew my husband was “the one”, I allowed foot-to-foot interaction. It doesn’t bother me at all, I even like it.

I have a feeling I’m going to like the idea of someone touching my feet next week.