My dearest twenty-something singleton friend just phoned with details of her latest wildly romantic escapade. I'm talking bodice-ripper, scandalous yet soulful pirate on the romance novel cover level of escapade. After a in depth dish session, she then asked what sorts of excitement I'd gotten myself into lately.
Having recently covered my tedious thirty-something basics - my job (fine), pets (fine), and mortgage (fine) - I signed off of the call shortly thereafter, resigned and, if I'm being honest, perhaps just a little sad. Not that my friendship is by any means competitive, but our conversation reminded me that my days of calling friends to dissect the man du jour have come to an end.
And then, not five minutes later, inspiration struck me - immature inspiration, admittedly, but inspiration nonetheless - as I grabbed my iPhone. Pulse racing, I snapped a picture, pressed "send", and breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that I haven't left all impulsive love affairs behind me along with my 20s.
Readers, I sent my friend a photo of my new handbag. Yes, handbag. Because I may have happily promised some 2.5 years ago not to have any more romances with other people but, by God, I'm clinging to the right to love & cherish fashion which I find on sale, 'til death - or American Express - do us part.
Edited to Add: Here's the iPhoto of my thirty-something adolescence . . .