It’s a week out from Thanksgiving, and I’m a mess. I’ve gained weight, and all of my clothes tug and poke and dig as incessant reminders. I sit at a desk, spend an hour and a half in traffic each day, and have basically abandoned any semblance of an exercise schedule. I tried doing yoga the other night with Avery until she insisted that we use the mats to make a fort instead. I tried going keto for a week until it left me so exhausted I could barely stand.

After nearly two decades working towards body positivity, I sense it dissolving. Now it just feels like one more thing I’m failing at.

And in two days, we’re flying to Brooklyn—where all the stylish people live. All the cool, young people whose clothes aren’t too tight because it’s all made of billowy, plant-dyed linen anyway. All the cool-young people who probably work at standing desks or pottery studios and practice mindfulness and accept their bodies and are radically self-loving. And here I am, a 37-year old mom with a mom bod, worrying way too much about what other people think of me. Making me exponentially less woke, less cool, and more prone to cognitive distortions.

And somehow I’ve convinced myself that the solution to this overwhelming sense of inadequacy is… shopping.  

Oh, how I want to shop!

I’ve gone to the mall almost every day this week during my lunch break. Feeling the holiday shopping frenzy around me, getting a little buzz from my La Columbe cold brew, searching for something to quell this feeling. Longing for something new, understated, loose-fitting, and effortless. An Ace and Jig dress, or an oversized blazer, or hell, even a slightly larger pair of mom jeans. Lipstick? I’ll take lipstick. Essential oils? Yeah, that’ll definitely do it. I hear lavender is great for existential dread.

Each store (yes, even the sustainable one) beckons with its promise of a slightly better, slightly newer me. The me I want to show the world: the together one, with great style, shiny hair, and youthful skin (she’s 37? No! What’s her secret?). The me that has never existed.

But in spite of all this temptation, I’ve held back. Because this little voice inside me (the smart one) knows I can’t shop my way out of this. That tiny, deeply rational part of me knows that the way I feel right now is so normal, so much a part of being a working parent—any kind of parent, really. And while I’m obviously not against shopping, I know that using it to distract myself from stress is only making it worse. That what I need, while it can’t be bought, is within my reach. I just need enough quiet to find it.

So once again I’m curbing my consumer impulse. Packing my bags for the east coast with the same old trusty, slightly-snugger wardrobe. Taking a deep breath and trying to embrace the ebb and flow of my body, my emotions, and my spirit.

And maybe once we’ve made it, I’ll take a little trip to Mood.