better and will be calmer for tonight.
That’s right. Tonight is Back-to-School Night, and who knows when Nathan will be home. He hasn’t called yet to say whether he’s arriving home tonight or tomorrow.
I call the spa. They could get me in at two for an hour Swedish massage. Perfect. I take the appointment.
The massage is heavenly. Not too much pressure, nor is the touch too light.
During the first half hour while I lie facedown on the table, I breathe slowly and deeply to a measured count of one, two, three. I’m so relaxed that I’m nearly asleep when the masseuse’s quiet voice says, “Okay, Mrs. Young, you can turn over now.”
The sheet above me lifts discreetly, and groggily I flip onto my back and the masseuse drapes the sheet back over me.
She continues working her magic, and again I nearly drift to sleep. Twenty-five minutes later, I leave a $20 tip and float out of the day spa. I feel so good right now, so calm and relaxed. This is how I want to feel tonight: calm, relaxed, confident.
Back home, I greet my girls, say hello to Annika, whom I unfortunately need to remind that Brooke and Jemma should be doing their homework before they turn on the TV, and grab the pile of mail off the hall table.
I carry the mail upstairs to my desk. Magazines, bulletins, bills. Most of the bills have Nathan’s name on them, but my credit cards have my name. I open the credit card statement that arrived in today’s mail. It’s not my Platinum Visa. It’s my Platinum American Express.
The statement is long, two and a half pages. Chewing my lip, I glance to the top to see how much we owe.
Fifteen thousand.
My God.
I sink into the chair at my desk and flatten the statement pages. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. How could I have spent this much? Fifteen thousand in one month?
Again?
Three months ago, Nathan—who never loses his cool—lost it with me. I’m lucky, too, I know it. I have the best husband in the world, and I hate to upset him, I really do, and I work so hard to be the good wife, but I’ve got these . . . things . . . that keep me from being the perfect wife.
My impulsive spending.
And my compulsive dieting.
Most people don’t know about my inability to budget and my obsession with my weight, and I try to hide both from the girls. Nathan knows, of course. After all, he handles the finances and sleeps with me, so he knows the things I’d never want others to know.
And I promised him, I
promised
I wouldn’t lose control again. I thought I’d been better, thought I’d watched the expenses, but obviously I forgot just how many purchases I’d made in August.
I do this, and I’m not sure how, but I forget the money I spend, and looking at the statement, I see that some of it is on me: hair, $300; skin care, $1,000; dermatologist, $1,000; shoes, $1,500; swimsuit and new yoga outfits, $500; personal trainer, $1,000 (and I didn’t show up for half but was billed anyway); pedicure and manicure, $100; dinner with the girls, $200 with tip.
The other $10,000? Five thousand on back-to-school clothes for the girls at Nordstrom’s. Ballet lessons. Tap shoes. Lunch at Red Robin. Dinner at California Pizza Kitchen. Birthday party at Build-a-Bear.
Airline tickets for our March trip to Disneyland. Flowers for a friend’s birthday. Catered lunch for another friend’s birthday.
Gas for the car, Amazon book purchases, groceries, wine, household stuff from Crate & Barrel, more household stuff from Pottery Barn, Starbucks gift card, Kodak Gallery online photo store, cute nothings from Kit’s Cottage, and oh, jewelry to accessorize a new outfit.
Nathan’s going to kill me.
I put my head down on my desk and cry. And then when I’m done crying, I go downstairs and rummage through the cabinets, looking for anything chewy, gooey, and sweet. I’m on my fourth Double Stuf Oreo when the phone rings.
I pick up the cordless handset off the counter. It’s Nathan’s cell.
I should answer. But I don’t.
That’s right. Tonight is Back-to-School Night, and who knows when Nathan will be home. He hasn’t called yet to say whether he’s arriving home tonight or tomorrow.
I call the spa. They could get me in at two for an hour Swedish massage. Perfect. I take the appointment.
The massage is heavenly. Not too much pressure, nor is the touch too light.
During the first half hour while I lie facedown on the table, I breathe slowly and deeply to a measured count of one, two, three. I’m so relaxed that I’m nearly asleep when the masseuse’s quiet voice says, “Okay, Mrs. Young, you can turn over now.”
The sheet above me lifts discreetly, and groggily I flip onto my back and the masseuse drapes the sheet back over me.
She continues working her magic, and again I nearly drift to sleep. Twenty-five minutes later, I leave a $20 tip and float out of the day spa. I feel so good right now, so calm and relaxed. This is how I want to feel tonight: calm, relaxed, confident.
Back home, I greet my girls, say hello to Annika, whom I unfortunately need to remind that Brooke and Jemma should be doing their homework before they turn on the TV, and grab the pile of mail off the hall table.
I carry the mail upstairs to my desk. Magazines, bulletins, bills. Most of the bills have Nathan’s name on them, but my credit cards have my name. I open the credit card statement that arrived in today’s mail. It’s not my Platinum Visa. It’s my Platinum American Express.
The statement is long, two and a half pages. Chewing my lip, I glance to the top to see how much we owe.
Fifteen thousand.
My God.
I sink into the chair at my desk and flatten the statement pages. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. How could I have spent this much? Fifteen thousand in one month?
Again?
Three months ago, Nathan—who never loses his cool—lost it with me. I’m lucky, too, I know it. I have the best husband in the world, and I hate to upset him, I really do, and I work so hard to be the good wife, but I’ve got these . . . things . . . that keep me from being the perfect wife.
My impulsive spending.
And my compulsive dieting.
Most people don’t know about my inability to budget and my obsession with my weight, and I try to hide both from the girls. Nathan knows, of course. After all, he handles the finances and sleeps with me, so he knows the things I’d never want others to know.
And I promised him, I
promised
I wouldn’t lose control again. I thought I’d been better, thought I’d watched the expenses, but obviously I forgot just how many purchases I’d made in August.
I do this, and I’m not sure how, but I forget the money I spend, and looking at the statement, I see that some of it is on me: hair, $300; skin care, $1,000; dermatologist, $1,000; shoes, $1,500; swimsuit and new yoga outfits, $500; personal trainer, $1,000 (and I didn’t show up for half but was billed anyway); pedicure and manicure, $100; dinner with the girls, $200 with tip.
The other $10,000? Five thousand on back-to-school clothes for the girls at Nordstrom’s. Ballet lessons. Tap shoes. Lunch at Red Robin. Dinner at California Pizza Kitchen. Birthday party at Build-a-Bear.
Airline tickets for our March trip to Disneyland. Flowers for a friend’s birthday. Catered lunch for another friend’s birthday.
Gas for the car, Amazon book purchases, groceries, wine, household stuff from Crate & Barrel, more household stuff from Pottery Barn, Starbucks gift card, Kodak Gallery online photo store, cute nothings from Kit’s Cottage, and oh, jewelry to accessorize a new outfit.
Nathan’s going to kill me.
I put my head down on my desk and cry. And then when I’m done crying, I go downstairs and rummage through the cabinets, looking for anything chewy, gooey, and sweet. I’m on my fourth Double Stuf Oreo when the phone rings.
I pick up the cordless handset off the counter. It’s Nathan’s cell.
I should answer. But I don’t.
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