Neuron Breakdown

I'm guessing that it must have been the combination of weekend events that ultimately led to my irrational mall behavior because I'm typically level-headed and logical when it comes to shopping. All I can say is something went terribly wrong that day.

I shutter to think that I was having another bad hair day because my hair hasn't even grown back one sixteenth of an inch from my last but very recent, and very uncontrollable, hair cutting episode. I won't mention how vulnerable I'm feeling about my sudden phobia...that another one of my spontaneous hack jobs could easily land me smack in the middle of the lobby of the nearest rehab facility where I would be coerced into doing a 12-step program similar to Brittany's. But instead of alchohol, they would take away my scissors.

No, it was absolutely NOT a bad hair day.

In my recollection of that peculiar moment, I can say with conviction that this unnatural and unexpected urge to "browse" can only be described as overpowering. Anyone who has known me for the past thirteen years knows that I'm not in the least bit inclined to indulge myself when it comes to clothing; and unaware that the left side of my brain had become impaired, I mosied on over to the Juniors' department whereby my ten minute errand for returns abruptly unfolded into frequent treks to the dressing room.

The worst part was that I had no way of concealing the bulging shopping bag under my arm that held five pair of baby blue denim, faded in the rear, low-waisted, girly-girl capris. I admit that I was feeling rather euphoric as I made my way back to the car, but I also began to experience an overwhelming sensation of confusion that my brain could only register as an unpremeditated act of insanity. It was then that I began to retrace my steps to determine just exactly when all of my little neurons had taken the ultimate nose dive from a total lack of oxygen which undoubtedly caused severe hemorrhaging in the common sense department of my brain, thus disabling any and all conservative reasoning during that entire hour of my shopping frenzy.

Maybe the decline in oxygen began slowly after Friday's celebration of the successful completion of the Algebra I course I was taking with my daughter which left me feeling elated and triumphant and perhaps even a little giddy.

On the other hand...

it could have been the departure of our cute little amphibian friends who were delivered bright and early on Saturday morning to the local pet store to take their rightful place in line among the other prey on the food chain. Let's see, I think it goes something like this: crickets, frogs, lizards, snakes..."are you sure you want us to make a meal out of your pets?" they chuckled. One didn't need to possess a high degree of intelligence to figure out that in the back of their minds they had already sprinkled our little froglets with salt and pepper and added a dash of Picante for seasoning before I even had one foot out the front door.

On the other hand...

it could have been the terribly long hours of stressful preparation on Saturday afternoon and evening as I contemplated the stack of intimidating CD's, DVD's and textbooks trying to make sense of the beginning chapters of three somewhat intensive subjects like Latin, Logic, and Algebra II, well after midnight. I'm positive I had no brain cells left by the following morning.

But one would think after a peaceful night of rest that I would eventually sober up and come to my senses, especially after my daughter had the audacity to ask me several hours after my fit of incomprehensible self-indulgence if I was truly the rightful owner of those new blue jeans. We wear the same size pants and she naturally assumed that an old lady like myself shouldn't be caught dead wearing any article of clothing from the Juniors' department, privacy of my own living room or not. Going public was not even an option.

Here's what I don't know:

I still don't know just exactly what caused my delusional behavior. I don't know why I chose a pair of stretch jeans that are laced with sparkling sequins on the pockets of my rear-end. I don't know why I'm not feeling the least bit regretful.

Here's what I do know:

I do know that my dear, sweet, loving, manipulative daughter is not getting a single pair of my new little stretchies.