Don’t get me wrong – I’m not BEHIND the times.  I’m not wearing shoulder pads or anything.  I know how to dress myself and my slightly complicated figure.  I splurge on good denim, accentuate the positives, and know when to belt a dress.  When I actually try, I can put together a somewhat decent outfit.

But most of the time, I don’t really take fashion risks.  I like my tried-and-trues.

So on Saturday, when Ashley and I were at Anthropologie and she convinced me not only to try on but subsequently drive home with a pair of high-waisted jeans, I was shocked.

And when we got back to the house and my brother immediately brought up Steve Urkel, and then taught my nephews how to taunt me with the classic Urkel line, “Did I do that?” needless to say, my confidence was shaken.  But then I remembered that my brother isn’t exactly rocking the fashion world himself (sorry, Jeremy).

So I put on the new jeans, and headed out for dinner and drinks – looking no less than 7 feet tall, I might add.

But I left the tags on, just in case.  (I know – go ahead.  Judge.)

So what say you, my little sweeties?  Yay or nay on the high-waisted jeans?

I am not a hypochondriac, I promise. But I think I might have shingles. Yes, shingles: a form of HERPES. Julie, the soon-to-be nurse, checked out the small patch of – I don’t know, what should I call them? blisters? scabs? rash bumps? – and consulted a physiology textbook for reference. No conclusive evidence was found…

But I am calling it shingles.

Maybe it’s eczema. Maybe it’s psoriasis. Maybe it’s just… random shaving nicks that landed far from anywhere I use a razor? But I think it’s shingles. It might be an allergic reaction to high heels and elevator Muzak. It could be stress related – or punishment for an unconfessed sin – or perhaps my body’s way of saying, “Stop eating brie for dinner every single night.” But I think it’s shingles.

(Oddly enough, this is not the first time that shingles have been mentioned on this blog.)

As one without health insurance, I am combating this ailment with an old cure-all: baking soda. Seriously, is there anything that baking soda doesn’t do? It takes the stench out of a fridge. It cleans teeth. It erupts 5th grade science project volcanoes. And yes, it mixes with water to form a healing paste.

I sound like such a hippy. Who needs Mary Kay when you have castor oil? Who needs shampoo when you have egg whites? Who needs antibiotics when you have Arm & Hammer?

But… (ready for the segue?)… I spend enough money on my jeans to make up for my thrifty health and beauty habits. And yesterday on my lunch break, having a gift card from Christmas and a big need for some new fancy pants, I went shopping.

So, there I was in the dressing room, pulling on what seemed to be the perfect pair: long enough, dark enough, fit in all the right places. From the front, they seemed to get the job done, if you know what I’m saying. But then I did that awkward twisty-turn in the mirror to see my backside, and y’all:

They were smooth butt jeans.

You know the type – no back pockets whatsoever.

I’m sorry, but I don’t do smooth butt jeans. I am not in a rodeo. I need back pockets. Where else would I put my Benjamins when I club-hop? Where else would I stash all of the numbers on cocktail napkins? Where else would a boyfriend put his hands as we slowly and awkwardly waddle through the mall?

That is, if I haven’t completely blown my dating life by mentioning the fact that I HAVE SHINGLES.*

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*It’s probably not shingles.