It was so fun to play pretend-dress-up last week, I thought I'd do it again.
I like to think of this ruffly navy number as something Other Me would wear. With a great big white handbag and a really simple necklace.
Other Me is someone I invented last weekend, while I was shopping with a friend in a store that catered to six-foot women who don't mind showing a bit of...well, everything. All the clothes were ones that would look good on a really slutty supermodel. They were dirt-cheap (both in price and in quality) and not really my style. For some reason, I fell in love with a pair of really inappropriate-for-me shoes (let's put it this way: they would've been totally at home on a dominatrix, whereas I trip over my own feet even in sneakers) and my friend looked at me like I was nuts.
"They're not for me," I said. "They're for Other Me. You know, the me that isn't married and isn't chasing a two-year-old around," I panted as I dashed around the store trying to prevent Piper from leaving with merchandise or knocking anything over. "The me that's a famous writer or fashion-magazine editor and lives in the imaginary New York City of the movies, where everybody wanders around dressed in $500 shoes and you can always afford a cab if you don't feel like walking."
Her eyes lit up. "Aaaaahhh," she said. "I gotcha."