I’m the sort of snob that is snobby about not being a snob. I pride myself on not shopping in the malls or subscribing to fashionable trends like TV or magazines that most gals my age read for pleasure by the pool. I eat organic vegetarian and snub my nose at chain restaurants, blockbuster movies, cruises, pharmaceutical medicine and tanning beds. I dress in organic cotton handmade in someone’s backyard with vegetable dyes and the sound of free-range chickens cooing in the background. But now—my entire disdainful cover is about to be blown apart.
Anthropology has opened a store at my local mall. I’m so screwed. I have a burning need to put on make-up and heels, swing by Starbucks for a caramel macchiato and spend hours on a credit card spending spree; then maybe easy my tired feet with a pedicure, an apple martini and a romantic comedy. I’m going to need to find an AA to join.