shopping for mourning clothes (m)

As I'm leaving A's house, I heard her mother ask A's sister if the kids had appropriate things to wear to their mom's funeral.  Then A's mother said she needed to get to the beauty parlor and take care of herself.

I realize then that I haven't wanted to face the obvious fact that A would leave us very soon.  It's as if I didn't want to jinx it by planning for the inevitable.

I get in my car, bleary-eyed, and head towards my home.  I do a mental inventory of my closet.  You would think with all the black garments in there that I would have something to wear to the services for A but all I could think of was a nice black dress with a lightweight, buttonless cardigan.  The one I bought a few months ago turned out to be almost transparent and, after seeing my arms in the photo taken of me the night of my brother's anniversary party at my home, I decided I do not have the right to bare arms.

I head to the Eileen Fisher store near my house.  Get there and the store is quiet as most of the well-heeled townspeople are still summering elsewhere.  I walk in intent on buying a sweater.  First, a skirt catches my eye--long, narrow, slimming.  I ask if they have it in a plus size.  As a matter of fact, they do, they almost shriek.  Another woman bought a 2x and a 1x online and kept the 2x.  I try on the 1x.  Too big.  They give me an XL (isn't an XL the same as a 1x?).  Too big.  A regular-size Large?  Perfect. 

I buy a silk tank top to go with the skirt.  They convince me to buy a crimson-colored sweater to complete the ensemble.  I buy that.  Then a scarf.  Then another scarf.  Then two more sweaters (the last item is the one I came to buy and almost forgot all about it).

I leave the store and go to the shoe store.  I buy a pair of Dana Davis leather sandals in a chestnut color.  Even on sale, they cost more than the montly rent for my first apartment.  I buy a pair of black heels.  They are ugly, but comfortable.  The drastic markdown makes them less ugly and more comfortable.

At 3 p.m., my stomach grumbles.  I head to Pinkberry for a frozen yogurt parfait (250 calories).  I pass a boutique where I buy a bracelet I don't need to go with the newly-purchased blue sweater I also don't need.

I get home at 4 p.m. and dump my purchases on my bed.  I survey the scene.

None of this stuff makes me feel any better.