Don’t worry – this is NOT a period post, so you can keep reading gentlemen…
I’m not usually a gross person. I shower regularly, avoid ingesting copious amounts of garlic, brush my teeth, and engage in regular hair removal (I’m half Jewish, you wouldn’t believe my natural eyebrows…) but sometimes I randomly do something so vile, so horrifically out-of-character that I can’t keep it a secret for long.
A few weeks ago, I grabbed lunch in Georgetown with a friend and decided that, after surviving an endless week, some retail therapy was in order. I hit up a few of my usual spots — Madewell, Lululemon, Urban — before making my way over to some of the smaller side streets.
I’d been trekking through the neighborhood in what I thought were cute, comfy flats, but after an hour of traipsing in and out of stores, my ankles had been rubbed raw and a huge blister had formed on my right heel.
Some people might say that my pain tolerance is low, but I beg to differ. I think, for a pseudo-redhead, I actually have a pretty high ceiling for pain. That’s why, after another half hour of strolling, I was genuinely surprised to look down and see that the raw section of my heel had burst open and wet bubbles of blood were seeping out the back of my white and gold ballet flat.
It didn’t hurt exactly, but I wouldn’t say that was the look I was really going for…
Now, an intelligent person might have seen bloodshed as a sign to call an uber and head home for the day, but I HAD A GIFTCARD DAMNIT and I was determined to spend it. So instead of turning around and calling it a day, I bravely soldiered on and spun through the revolving glass door of Barney’s Co-op.
The exhaustingly chipper salesgirl greeted me at the door and immediately sprang into action, asking me what I was looking for today and offering to get me a dressing room. I grabbed a few festive, holiday sweaters and was going to leave it at that, but the salesgirl insisted I try on a few pairs of skinny jeans in order to (her words not mine) “create an ensemble”.
As I pulled clothes off and on behind the heavy velvet curtain, I realized I had completely forgotten about my foot. Oh well, I thought, there wasn’t that much blood, and it probably dried quickly…
I looked down at the stretchy beige pants I’d just pulled off and the entire interior section of the leg was streaked with my reddish brown blister juice.
I glanced at the price tag.
Shit. $200 jeans. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Blood comes out in the wash, right?
I neatly folded up all the clothes – once I realized I was about to pull a morally reprehensible move, nothing really looked good on me anyway – and beelined out of the store. If the pants had actually fit me and cost a reasonable amount, I might have considered just buying them, but they were hideous! AND overpriced. So I just…couldn’t.
And that’s my confession. I’m a terrible human being, I know.
I’m sorry for powering through foot pain, developing a blister, and rubbing it all over things that weren’t mine. I promise I’ll be more careful with any oozing wounds next time I go shopping.