He has a point, but could that be right? Yes. Yes, yes, yes!
"Good point," I said. Then, to the redhead standing by, "I'll take it." I bought the spectacular Audrey Hepburn wannabe accessory for my head. And another. And another. Until the lady of the shop raced to measure my head and make up my profile in her "repeat customers" database.
As I signed the credit card slip, a voice in my head said, "How could you? Do you know how irresponsible this is? Couldn't that money have gone toward your school loans or car debt or anything practical?"
This, of course, was drowned out by another, much louder voice squealing with delight, "You are going to look so fucking fabulous on Martha's Vineyard next month. So. Fucking. Fabulous."
So it wasn't a coincidence that of the two boutique hotels we favor in the city, I again booked us a room at the one a few doors down from the Hat Shop. Though the other boutique boasted "on-call therapy," I figured blowing some cash on a fabulous new hat was therapy enough. The day before we saw Spamalot, I bought two more hats -- another elegant Audrey Hepburn number and a giant red floppy thing from Madagascar.
On my way home, I relaxed with free refills of red wine in a lush seat to help prepare myself for the slower pace and milder climate of America's Finest City. Sure, the sound of my credit cards weeping was audible above the hum of the aircraft, but the cards' pain is a small price to pay for the weekend I had. David may have spoiled me in the beginning, but in the end I learned a valuable lesson: there's nothing wrong with living well.
Diary of a Diva from previous weeks