Confessions of a Former Shopaholic

I once tried reading the popular Sophie Kinsella book, Confessions of a Shopaholic, but I had to put it down. Actually, I really wanted to hurl it out the window.

The neverending stream of collection letters, endless bargaining with creditors, the distorted justification of unneeded purchases--I had lived it, was living it and certainly didn't need to be reminded at the time.

I've done my share of keeping up with the Joneses. And the Smiths, Johnsons and Browns. I am the queen of living beyond my means, more likely to spend that last $100 on a cute pair of shoes than the cable bill, or even groceries. Better to starve than give up my Carrie Bradshaw reputation, nevermind that I am not a successful Manhattan sex columnist, but a struggling publicist going through a very costly divorce. And while Carrie may look fabulous, she's also an emotional wreck, bouncing from one unfulfilling relationship to the next, drowning her sorrows in cosmos and maxing out her credit cards to buy her beloved Manolos.

Not that I aspire to the Manhattan high life nor to own $40,000 worth of designer shoes, but if I can never have that cute bungalow in Morningside, the 2.5 kids, the Volvo wagon or closet full of expensive clothes, I can find wealth and fulfillment in other, more permanent things--love, fellowship, generosity, integrity and community, a legacy with a lifetime far longer than a pair of Jimmy Choos.