The Discount Life: State of Process - Pre-Inventory Yourself

As it turned out, days turned into a week and I don’t remember much of the first 48 hours. I slept, I drank Mel’s tea, I called in to work, I slept some more. Mel and Jack went about their lives and left me in the comfort of the guest room, an initial sanctuary that quickly began to feel like a loony bin. What was I doing? And yet the answer to the question seemed very logical, very sound: you’re saving yourself. No more discounts.


Except that when I developed the concept I envisioned a world where clearing all your discounts, setting goals and following through led to a life of contentment and harmony. So far, I’d dismissed several good fashion items with the potential to come back in style, fatally exhausted my lungs only to be light years away from running a marathon, left my boyfriend of six years and my home and all the picture frames that went with it. No discounts was beginning to feel like a very convenient phrase for loser. How long was my two minute movie clip going to last? I mean really. Self-awareness should do you the favor of moving life a long at a pace that reassures you that Richard Gere is just around the corner and that all this change will pay off in the end. But my plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.

By Wednesday, I pulled myself out of bed long enough to shower and throw on some sweats. I pulled my hair back in a knot and examined my face. The remnants of puffy crying lids had been reduced to taupe circles under my eyes. My chin had birthed a couple of teenage era break outs, which could be related to stress or the fact that my comatose recluse act had kept me from washing my face for three days. And let’s not even talk about my hair. The roots were unspeakable. When had I just stopped caring about my appearance? And was that a wrinkle creasing around my left eye? If no discounts continued to wreak this much havoc on my face – I’d be a shriveled up mummy by next week.

I rested my arms on the bathroom counter, leaned over the sink and closed my eyes. I thought, momentarily, about crying again – it is indescribably hard to stop feeling sorry for yourself when you’ve given up near your entire life AND your reflection proffers a premature Betty White in the mirror; a tired one at that. But the smell of coffee hit my nostrils and something like a light bulb clicked on in my head. What time was it? I had no idea. Mel had neglected to put a clock in the guest room and my cell phone was in my purse, which was in the entryway where I had not been since Sunday when I collapsed, as fast as possible, into a Nyquil induced coma. There were black out blinds on the windows in the guest room which contributed to my days on end of sleeping but the slight etching of light coming from their corners suggested it was morning.

I cracked open the door and peered around the apartment. You could see pretty much the whole lay out from this spot. I heard no one, I saw no one and I rebuffed myself for feeling timid in Mel’s house. In times passed it was as if it was my own but now it felt foreign. Occupied – by a boy. I tip-toed toward the kitchen and relaxed as I turned the corner until a familiar voice said “good morning” from his birthday suit and his boxers. I jumped, turned and covered my eyes with my hands.

“Jack! I’m so sorry,” I tried to find the door and hit the wall instead, “ I didn’t know anyone was here,” I said, turning and hitting the kitchen chair, stubbing my toe with great force. “Damn it…”

“Chloe. It’s fine. I took a chance you weren’t joining the living yet. Miscalculation.”

“Oh. It’s okay. This is your house. My fault,” I said, standing still, my hands firmly over my eyes. There was an awkward silence enhanced by the clanging of the spoon he used to stir his coffee.

“Chloe. Stop. You’ve seen boxers before. And I’m leaving anyway. Gotta get dressed for work.” I could hear him moving. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Have some coffee. It’ll be good for you.” He made for the kitchen door and I let down my hands and walked toward the coffee pot. “I know that tea Mel’s been making you tastes like shit.” I laughed and secretly agreed with him.  I poured myself a swimming pool sized mug of coffee, Mel liked all her mugs to be the size of soup terrains, and walked to the window. Look at that – the sun was shining. Huh.

I went to my purse and checked my phone. Two missed calls from Stanley. Eight missed calls from my parents house. One from work. And one from Judy. I put the phone down and climbed back into bed. Get Some Manners was back on the nightstand. I flipped it open to Chapter 5: Inventory Yourself. I glanced down at the coffee stain I’d had enough time to make since pouring the cup in the kitchen. Between my hair, my stain, my skin, my condition and my aloneness – inventorying myself sounded like a sure way to end up on a ledge. No thanks. Let’s skip that this morning. Instead I grabbed a magazine. 10 Ways to Show Your Mom You Can Dress Up Like a Lady, Beauty on a Budget, How to Inspire Him This Thanksgiving. I flipped through it long enough to feel my own inspiration. Retail therapy. A reason to get out of the house. A perfect reason to get out of the house.

I waited until I heard Jack say, “ By Chloe” and shut the door behind him. I took an inordinately long time getting dressed but when I checked the mirror I still felt garish. Oh Whatever.

I drove to the nearest mall and basked in the idea that inside those four walls would be the miracle drug that would get me through the next phase. I parked the car, located the directory and made a mental map of the A-listers: Anthropologie, Jcrew, Banana Republic, Urban Outfitters, Arden B – When I hit Anthropologie, instinct kicked in. I ignored the myriad full priced, very beautiful items, and went directly to the sale rack. I piled my arms high with swag of multiple colors. A rush of contentment washed over me. In the dressing room I began my personal fashion show with a ruffled top and a pair of high waisted, wide leg pants. I stood before the three way mirror and examined myself from every angle. Was it disturbing if I admitted that three days of depressive not eating had shaved off those couple of pounds that had resisted the advances of the elliptical before? My butt looked awesome! Immediately, as all women do, I began to come up with scenarios in which it would be plausible to wear this outfit. Each scenario inevitably led to meeting the love of my life and living happily ever after. I pictured Christian and before I could control the situation my brain had him ripping my pants off….Stop it Chloe. That’s ridiculous. But I bought the pants anyway.

My next foray was at Banana Republic, where I tried on a little blue dress at 40% off and stood back to admire myself. It was little too tight across the bum and a little too short if I was honest; when I moved it hiked dangerously close to my area of mystery. But the sales lady came up behind me and said “Wow, you look fantastic in that”. Half truth. I looked like an almost perfect version of a slightly slutty semi-intelligent secretary. “You know Cameron Diaz wore a dress just like that to the People’s Choice Awards and you look just like her in it. Better even”, which is the world’s worst sale’s line and could only be true if I grew a foot in ten minutes and found a male model to hang on my arm. But its having been said out loud in reference to me made me smile regardless. I bought the dress.

It was one of those times where you know you shouldn’t do it but it feels marvelous so you do anyway. Like the boy you shouldn’t have kissed but did or the box of Thin Mints you know you’ll regret but go so far as to consume an entire sleeve in one sitting and then berate yourself for the rest of the night. Purchase after purchase, I felt my anxieties calm. The cooling effect of a lifelong drug: immediate gratification. As I packed my purchases in the car, the little voice in my head said this was not the behavior of a woman in control of her new No Discounts life. And I was more than a little afraid to face Mel. As in most cases, the truth was already there: I had used one vice to compensate for a void instead of dealing with the void. Despite the fact that I was aware, I chose to briefly suspend that knowledge and indulge in what I knew would make me feel good right now. Get Some Manners said that a person who is always suspending their “truth” is doomed to repeat the very thing they wish to change – over and over. I knew this. I heard “Be true to yourself” like a record on repeat in my head. But I would wait to hear it from Mel to fully acknowledge it.

To make myself feel less guilty and more accomplished, I dialed Andrew on my way back to Mel’s. At least asking him to be my DL partner would prove I had made an attempt to adhere to the DLA. I got his voice mail and left a too lengthy message that in retrospect, truly said nothing at all but, in woman speak, gave him every detail of the last four days in babble. Mel would’ve known exactly what the whole charade meant. I ended with “call me. I’ve got a question for you” and hung up. He was probably with discount girl. Why did that bother me so much? Detach yourself from the situation. That’s what Get Some Manners said. I am detached from the discount girl. I am detached from the discount girl.  I don't care.  I don't care.  I repeated it until I got back to the apartment. By the last go round I was actually starting to believe it.

Mel greeted me at the door, a déjà vu I was happy did not end the way it did four days ago. “Successful day?” she asked. I looked down at my loot and sighed, “I know. I know,” I said mournfully. “It’s a load of discount stuff.” She didn’t say anything but raised her brows and smiled. “ Awww…crap. I’m going to have to return it all aren’t I?”

“Well, maybe not all of it. Let’s see some first”. We went inside to dissect the purchases from the floor of her walk in closet. She examined the pants, the shirts. I tried on the misguided dress. “Why’d you do this Clo?” she asked.

“You know why.” She nodded. “I wanted to feel happy and content, which I know doesn’t come from buying clothes. It comes from my intrinsic value. I am valuable even if I’m only valuable to me,” I said sarcastically, repeating word for word the mantra Get Some Manners attempted to instill in its reader from page one to my current resting spot of Chapter 5. Which still remained: Inventory yourself, and which I was still unwilling to do.

“You are valuable Clo. And you don’t need a dress and pants and a belt to prove it.”

“I know. But they’re cute right?”

“Okay you might need the pants to prove it but that dress is slutty. Take it back.”

“I will.”

My phone rang. “It’s Andrew.” Mel made a face. I made one back and I answered, “Long time no talk stranger.”

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Trying on slutty clothes and getting yelled at by Mel. I have to return them.”

“Don’t return it all. Guys like slutty clothes sometimes. ”

“I’m keeping the pants.”

“Good call.”

“You haven’t even seen them.”

“I have a picture in my mind. It’s very clear. You should keep the pants.” Our banter felt complete again, which really only meant I didn’t feel her this time. There was a difference in his voice when she wasn’t nearby. Relief washed over me like someone who just realized they aren’t going to fall afterall. “So, you have a question for me? Shoot.”

“Oh yeah. Will you be my DLA partner? We’re doing partners for the DLA meetings on Sundays and I just thought since you helped me with my list I’d ask you?”

“Oh. Yeah sure, I guess. What about Stanley?” I was silent. Mel looked up from the floor and smiled reassuringly when she registered the panic on my face. “No discounts,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“No discounts,” I repeated with more strength this time, my heart pounding in my chest. “I’m not with Stanley anymore. I’m staying with Mel for a while and I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.” This time he was the quiet one.

“Okay,” he said, after a long pause. “I’ll be there.” I didn’t try to fight the tears that clouded my vision but I did, unsuccessfully, battle the emotion that clouded my throat. “Thank you,” I croaked.

There was a long stretch of silence and he broke it, saying, “I’m here Chloe. Whatever you need. I’m here.” He said it so softly, I thought I could crawl inside it and sleep peacefully there for life. When we hung up I wiped the threatening liquid from my eyes and turned to Mel. “I think I’m gonna wear these to cooking class tomorrow”. I faked a smile and held the pants up to my body.

“I don’t think I’m going to go,” she said.

“Why?!”

“Because you don’t really want me to.”

“I do too. I asked you, remember?”

“Yeah but that was before….” I hadn’t told her about Christian but I knew what she was going to say, “who is he Chloe?” Damn Mel for reading me like an open book all the time. Other people only hear what you tell them. But the real people in your life know more than your words. She could read between my lines. She heard everything. She saw everything. She knew everything.

“His name is Christian. He’s – amazing.”

“Do you think you guys have a shot or is this a fun thing?”

“I don’t know.” I paused. “And Mel, I really don’t care.” She nodded.

“Then you should wear the pants. You look hot in them.” We stared intensely at each other for a moment, then burst into carols of laughter.


His back was turned to me when I walked into class. God he was tall. And have I mentioned how gorgeous he is? Mmm. He turned when I said, “Hi there” and gave my outfit a once over. He was mute and shook his head as if to clear his attention. I sensed approval.

“I was wondering if you were going to make it to class tonight,” he said. “You were cuttin’ it close.”

“Worried?”

“No. Just curious.”

“Well, I’m here now,” I said. He sidled up next to me. “And I’m allowed to sit as close to you as I want.” He cocked an eyebrow.

“No Stanley?” I shook my head, no. “Does that mean that I can take you out for drinks tonight?”

“I told you. I’m a light weight. You’ll be carrying me home.”

“I’m okay with that.” Electricity pulsed through my body. My pheromones were primed.

“Alright. I’ll go for a drink. One. Drink.”

“Sounds like that’s all I’m gonna need,” he said. He grinned from ear to ear as Alex walked in saying, “Tonight we’re going to make Hot Tamale Pie. I have to warn you about the chili peppers. They’re tricky. Get too much at one time and your body will explode with heat.” I glanced at Christian. He returned the eye contact and his expression said he hadn’t missed the irony either. He brushed his finger tips against my leg under the veil of the island and I had to disagree with Alex. If anything was going to make my body explode with heat tonight, it wasn’t going to be the chili peppers.