I’ve been in a sorta downward spiral. I don’t want to get all Debbie Does Downers or anything, but things have been…not easy. But that’s hardly worthy of a blog post, because eh, things always turn themselves around. I was reminded of a lesson I learned many moons ago.

Let’s step into the Wayback Machine, shall we, Pranksters?

*cue a couple of wavy lines*

After I’d popped Ben out of my girl bits (read: had him yanked out with forceps) and gone back to work, I found myself in an odd predicament: I was twenty-one, 60 pounds heavier than I’d started out, and my self-esteem was at an all-time low. There’s nothing like going from a nubile young thang to waddling around, wearing granny sweaters and wondering about this whole dating-with-kids shit.

My all-nighters were spent with a single man, a single Chubbers little guy who appeared to be wearing a toupee and I couldn’t fathom that any other 21-year old guys would be all, “YES! I LOVE DATING CHICKS WITH KIDS! IT MEANS THEY PUT OUT!”

My friends were as supportive as they could be, considering they were crawling the bars and having wild, untamed sex, while I tried to understand how a baby could be so…crabby.

One afternoon, my friend Ashley – who’d been as awesome to me as sliced bread – decided that it was high time that we get our shop on. I had the cash. She had the car. It was time to get our SHOP ON.

(insert random pillow fight reference)

Maternity fashion around the time I’d had Ben was one of two things:

A) Circus Tent Chic

2) Circus Tent Chic

(this changed by the time I had Alex and Amelia).

So I hadn’t bought or worn anything that made me feel, well, GOOD, since I realized my maternity underwear could double as the mast of a very large sail boat.

We started with purses. Ashley had a penchant for fancy purses which, through the process of purse osmosis, I inherited. I ended up at the sunglasses counter at Nordstroms, because I needed a new pair, and I wasn’t about to drop major cash on clothes that ran into the double digits. I picked out a pair of Ralph Lauren shades and bought them while Ashley tried on size -2 pants (while she was super-skinny and adorable, she never made me feel like I was Jabba the Hut and/or Pregnasaurus Bex, something I am still grateful for).

“What’d you get?” she asked, carefully hiding the size from the pair of pants she was about to buy.

“These,” I whipped my new shades out of the bag and displayed them proudly.

“Holy shit, dude, those are expensive!” She said, a mixture of both awe and delight. “I’d never considered buying nice sunglasses before!”

I sorta shrugged. It was the first thing I’d done for myself in months and it felt fucking great.

We picked up a few other things here and there – a new bra and some undies, a purse or two, talking shit and being girly. It was the most fun I’d had in years (the years before I’d gotten knockered up with Ben were not particularly…kind to me).

And I’m sitting here today, no longer BFF with Ashley, feeling slightly mopey and a little Debbie Does Downers, sorta sad I’m missing my girls at Type-A this year, and realized something: I needed to lounge against the machine. I needed to do something just for me.

So I did.

Not one, but two pairs of new boots.

Why?

Because I’m worth it, dammit.

And so are you.

Now go do something kind for yourself – JUST FOR YOU – Pranksters. Because you’re worth it, dammit.