Chapter Eighty; Banana Republic Therapy and my Dignity Debacle (The Truth Behind the Psycho)

Here’s me today. Having a religious experience at Banana Republic.

Channeling Posh Spice.

(You know: Victoria Beckham? That chick who really needs a hamburger or twelve? Only I don't actually aspire to her emaciation. Because I believe that a day’s calories should consist of more than just three breath mints and a slice of turkey. Hence the size four I am wearing in this pic would be ginormous on her size ZERO frame. And really. What is with that? Zero? Does that make her invisible? I think it may. Screw that. I’m proud of the fact that when I walk into a room people aren’t tempted to use me as a coat rack. Plus damn, check out my runner’s calves. I digress.)

Back to my shopping therapy.

See those sunglasses?

Yeah. $120.

And hell yes I freakin’ bought them.

And the dress.

And the shoes.

Ah.

I feel better.

Oh, why the Banana attack?

Oh, I don’t know. No reason.

Nevermind the fact that I get on Facebook today and see pictures of Mr. List Man on my news feed kanoodling with some chick mere days after ending the deal with me.

Wtf?

Isn’t there some mandatory mourning period? Some respectable timeline? Hell, I’d take a week. Good gawd, can I have a week? What is with this smiling a mere six days later? I squint at the fun-filled frolicking photographic evidence taunting me on the screen. And think to myself, "Holy crap, that is the same sweater he was wearing dancing with me just a few weeks ago! What. The . . ."

And besides that.

Who the hell is Catherine?!?!?!

I instantaneously regress to my inner 16-year-old and text So Not the List Man exactly what I think of that crappola, all the while sprinkling in words like asshole, jerk, and player into my digital “AH HA!” And write some tell all statement on his Facebook wall.

Oh yeah.

I lost it.

Have you met my alter ego? Super Psycho?

Good gawd. I am so embarassed.

Because then he actually replies and he has a good story that clearly illustrates.

That the only jerk in this story?

Is overreative Audra.

So then I do the only other thing I can when I shred my dignity into tiny pieces all by my little self.

I call my mother.

And tell her what an idiot I am.

My mother agrees.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.

I can always count on my Mom to give it to me straight. My Mom is a farmer’s wife. She’s tougher than cow’s hide and fiercer than a rabid skunk.

So when I sense I need a life intervention, or just a good kick in the proverbial ass, I count on the woman who made me shovel grain bins, clean the barn, and weed the garden (and other ridiculous farm kid enslavement activities known under the legal term “chores”) to tell it to me straight.

So she does.

First she tells me I should be ashamed of myself for not getting the story from him first before hitting the ceiling. And that she feels sorry for “the kid” (as she calls him. Argh . . . ).

Then she tells me if I don’t start dating men born in the same decade as me that I had better get used to playing the fool.

Sigh.

Fine.

And then she kind of chuckles and adds, “And if you really think this is a problem, then stop botoxing, cut your hair and gain fifty pounds. That will solve your young stud situation.”

(Clearly, it is apparent where I got my “smart ass” genetics.)

I blab to that woman for an hour and in the end I feel a lot better. She does also say that she will always support me no matter what. Even on the age thing. Twenty or Fifty. If I am happy she’s fine with it, but if I am going to take a chance, then that means taking a chance.

And chances aren’t guarantees.

If they were they’d be called “sure things.”

And you can’t ever get to a sure thing, if you don’t take a chance or two.

I am so grateful God didn't give me the kind of mother who will blow smoke up my old enough to know better ass.

I hang up feeling a little stupid, definitely a lot embarrassed, but yet still lucky that I can be honest with at least one person on this planet and know she’ll still love me. Even when I am lost and over reacting and faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar too emotional.

But I am still a ashamed. And maybe still questioning Not the List Man's story. Argh...so confusing.

Hence, the shoparama excursion.

Because this last little journey into guy land may have ended in a dignity debacle.

But it wasn’t a total loss.

Because I just did some sweet damage at Banana Republic.

And Posh Spice and can eat her own heart out. (She needs the calories anyway.)
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P.S. I did not cut my hair, it is called a pony tail. I had been traveling earlier in the day. Who does their hair for the airport?
P.P.S. Here's a public apology to the poor guy who I subjected to the texting tirade and the Facebook temper tantrum. I am very sorry. Hopefully the public form is an illustration of my sincerity.