Someone should really put some serious effort into a neurological research that will explain what happens in the female mind upon entering a place that sells desirable goods (and by that I mean fashion) with a credit card. It's a phenomenon that is both mathematical and metaphysical where suddenly large numbers become infinitesimal and trivial objects become transcendental.
There's this one boutique not far from my house that I am forbidden to enter. It doesn't matter how much mental preparation I go through before going there, how I promise myself I will not spend more that X even if there's a shirt there with my name on it in diamonds, I always end up spending X times 4. At least. Because GOD HOW CAN I CONTINUE LEAVING WITHOUT THIS black sweater/new jeans/cool t-shirt/drop-dead gorgeous shoes that are now ON SALE, only slightly ridiculously expensive, and not completely ridiculously expensive as before?
In general, I'm not a very dressy person. I'm pretty true to my chucks and jeans. But my fashion-induced momentary lapses in coherent thought result in peculiar objects such as the 5-inches-heels silver sandals. Now, they are to. Die. For. Seriously. Only one problem though – I can't walk on high heels. [Why, for the love of all that is holy, will you spend even one dime on shoes you can't walk with? If you have to ask you are probably not a woman.]
You know who can walk on high heels though? The Dandelion. Little dude is rocking them heels like he was born in Prada. Once in a while he will take them out of the shoe-box, disrupting their perpetual beauty sleep, and start prancing around the house in them. And people, it is FUNNY. He's so good! He's almost graceful. At least as graceful as a chubby little quarterback on heels can be.
Now all I'm waiting for is for either my dad or my SIL to witness that. It took them a few years to get over the Ulysses nail polish incident, how long do you think this one will take?