Flying Solo

My male companions and I parted ways this morning. They called it going back to work, I called it abandoning me just like every other man has and WILL!
Nonplussed, I quickly replaced the two print reporters with one super media reporter, my old college buddy who also works for the New York Times but is based in Paris. However, before meeting up with him, I took advantage of the now missing male obstacles that had heretofore prevented me from shopping freely. First, I hit a few boutiques in Marais but soon realized that time was of the essence and if I was to spend any time with my friend and check one more locale on my must-see list, I would have to expedite the process of Parisian purchasing. Mango. My girlfriends had schooled me on this fashion triumph where high-end styles were available at "accessible prices."
When I'm shopping alone, I have a constant internal dialogue going. Here's what it sounded like today.
"Holy MOTHER of God- this coat was made for you!"
"No they don't. They don't have the most awesome white overcoat. Fuck off. That is not only 94 euros. If you don't buy this, you don't deserve to live."
I know it sounds harsh, but when I'm really surprised or excited, I lack the creativity or inclination to use proper vocabulary, choosing instead to curse like a sailor.
This is how the next hour went until I was overloaded with two wool overcoats, one black and one cream, both GORGEOUS, and a chic sweater, pull-over, blouse thingy. Then, they gave me two pairs of sunglasses for free because I spent so much money.
I fucking love this city.