I have problems.

I stumbled across this exact post in my drafts, which I wrote a year ago. As I read my words, I laughed at the oxygen that must have been missing from my brain at the time I wrote it. Instead, I gathered my emotions and chose to publish this. Much less intense. Much more normal, no? But looking back, isn't this just a better showcase of my extraordinary insanity? 

I'm a migraine sufferer. (Trust me, this has only a little everything to do with the title of this post.) Prior to getting a severe migraine I have major stroke-like symptoms. I get an aura before a major episode. For instance, my vision is impaired, mild limb paralysis, and temporary loss of speech. I'll elaborate more on this some other time. It's the whole strokey thing that gets me freaked out. But doctors haven't figured out what causes this- that's the scary part. It's not what I'm eating. Not what I'm drinking. My body does not seem to be lacking anything. Maybe some oxygen to the brain at times, which may be the cause of the aura, but that's it.

I also get pretty serious symptoms at times, totally unrelated to my migraines. Sweaty palms, pounding heart, breathlessness, etc. but only occasionally. And unlucky for me, because it tends to happen in public. Always in a store. And it seems to be related to material items. The cause of these symptoms has been diagnosed by me. I am a shopoholic. Let me elaborate:

After my intense workout at the gym, I decided to stop by the store to "window shop." I had no intention of making any purchases. None. I was sweaty for Pete's sake. Who wants to try on things while they are sweaty? Me? It is mandatory that I, unfortunately, have to put the blame on the LG, because since he was not there to steer me away, I wandered into the shoe department. I saw nothing special, but made sure to examine every shoe carefully. As I was about to walk towards the handbags, a tall pair of boots spoke out to me.

I gingerly picked them up..

Tall.

Black.

Handsome.

Sorry, Tyrese. It wasn't you.

Over the knee.

Shearling lined.

Platformy.

High.

I swoon.

The boot was on clearance, but still well over the $100 mark. My heart began to palpitate. I had crazy eyes. I had to unzip my jacket. As I fumbled with my zipper, I thought, if they had my size, I would not even think about it. I would buy it.

Can you guess what happened next?

Yup. Big foot, over here, could not find her size.

I was close to tears. But, I told myself, It's not meant to be. Walk away. And so I did, only to return 15 minutes later. I felt the urge to buy something. To whip out my credit card and swipe that thing like it's my job. So, I forced myself to like a pair of blue suede shoes. Seriously. And as I was trying them on, stretchy pants rolled up to my knees to get the full effect of the shoes, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a woman trying on my boots. Jealousy permeated through my bone marrow. My heart began to do that poundy thing again.

"Those look fabulous on you!" I managed to say. Yes, ladies and gents, I am that crazy shopper who randomly converses with other strangers.

"Thanks, but I think there's something wrong with them?" she replied, "The sizes seem to be all wrong."

"I know. My feet are just too big for a size 6.5." I said sadly.

"No, I think those are wrong," she says as she tugs one boot off of her suffocated leg and points to the numbers on the box. "The European sizes are not equivalent to the sizes on the box."

My little ears perk up. In my blue suede pumps and stretchy pants still rolled to the knees, purse carelessly left behind, I saunter over to the boots.

SURE ENOUGH. Size 7.5 was actually an 8. And since I am typically an 8.5, I knew the probability of the shoe fitting was in my favor. Hallelujah!

Blue pumps aside, the jacket came off, as my body heat was making me nauseous.

I didn't have to squeeze. I didn't have to yank, or pull or tug. They fit. Snugly. But they fit.

And so, faster than you can say, "I love Italian shoes!" I had swiped my credit card, politely declined a paper bag and was on my way home to model those babies to my fashion conscious boyfriend.

And this is a confession of a real life shopoholic and medical anomaly: semi-random but always honest.

**UPDATE: These boots, as fabulous as they are, have since nicely contributed to my growing bunions. I have taken them to the cobbler (the fancy word for shoe-repair-guy) to have them stretched, because they are undeniably uncomfortable. But alas, a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do, right?**