"I always say shopping is cheaper than a psychiatrist."

Translation: retail therapy has made me discover horrible, horrible things about myself.

So ever since my dog passed, I’ve had this overwhelming need to…nurture something. As much as it pains me to admit I have a heart, it should come as no shock to you all I’ve channeled the need to love the hell out of something by increasing the amount of time I spend shoe shopping. I’ve acquired QUITE the boot collection for this winter.

But put all these awesomely hot boots together, they are still nothing to cuddle up with at night. While, yes, the idea of nuzzling my grey Nubuck Rampage’s as I drift off to sleep has crossed my mind a couple of times…I am but a feeble woman, sue me.

Anyhow, since the need for me to be human and “feel things” has been more prevalent than I’d prefer lately, I’ve found an increasing correlation between the direction I’m headed and the nearest Macy’s. Which got me thinking- why the hell do women love shopping so much? Half the time we go, try stuff on, vow to never eat another piece of cake again and run a marathon, only to leave the store feeling gross and frumpy, and inevitably reaching for that last piece of Red Velvet to drown our sorrows in.

So I did some googling research, and it turns out women are likely to shop when either happy, or depressed. If you are a woman, or know a woman (I’m assuming this encompasses everyone reading) you know we pretty much only have two main emotions. And that would be happy, or depressed (occasionally we also experience madness brought on by the opposite gender). So it would seem we waste 98 percent of our free time spending our hard-earned money (or if you’re a lucrative women, some old guy’s dough) on clothes and shoes.

I find this to be a little dismal. But only a minimal amount because there are worse things we could be doing with our time. Like stealing cars or robbing banks. Shoe shopping is not a gateway crime. If it is, I might as well be locked up for life without parole because I own more shoes than I could possibly wear in a year, and I'd kill someone for a pair of Manolo's. I’m a shoe slut. I go weak in the knees for a pair of six inch red stilettos like Scarlett did for Rhett- and if they’re on sale, I have a shoegasm. And frankly my dear, that is something I DO give a damn about.

I often wonder why I can’t direct how pleased shoes make me into other aspects of my life. I’d be a lot happier if I had more money, but that would mean I had less shoes. You see the predicament. I fear if I do not find a constructive means to deal with my ever present desire to love something, I’m going to run out of closet space.

Oh, and there’s no biological clock ticking it’s magic here, I am in no way shape or form looking to have my own kid, I take care of about 200 of them on a weekly basis (and THAT is the best birth control EVER). It’s just that I’ve done such a wonderful job of taking care of myself that I actually find it enjoyable to take care of something or someone else. I’m…domesticated. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go cry over my lost rebelliousness while eating a bowl of ice cream and walking around in my 5” BCBG pumps searching for where I might have misplaced my edginess.

…and don’t be surprised if in my next blog, I come to you to speak about my new goldfish, Fred.