Can a handbag cure Rheumatoid?

Evidently, I am starting a combination therapy for treating what ails me—drugs and retail. It seems that along with a dozen different medicine bottles, I require a closet full of fresh and fabulous fashion to embark on my road to remission.

Am I am spending because I feel sorry for myself? Of course, I am.

And spending now seems to be the current best bet, because I might very well be cured from this treatment. And then what kind of self-pity would I have to motivate me to stalk the designer outlets? To break out my credit card in fits of wanton worry. To carry paper bags with labels like Prada and Coach instead of actual baggage labeled Pain and Crippled. For a moment, I felt like a diva instead of a disease.

I normally don’t splurge on myself. I can go nuts buying stuff for the kids and Dave, but I have some wicked reluctance for buying myself anything over $14.99 and if I do pull the trigger, it has got to be truly fabulous. And at that price, you can imagine how often I come home with a qualified winner.

Well, I am off the charts now. I have bought myself a snazzy, black, patent leather handbag and a pile of winter sweaters and cozy sweats. Anything I saw that caught my eye was taken off the rack, to the register, and tucked neatly into the back of my sporty minivan. I was woman possessed.

What I can’t figure out is where Sister Sin was during this raging shopping spree. Sister Sin is the Catholic nun, who lives in my head. She is a mental malfunction, who can calculate the sin/punishment ratio for every human activity at lightening speed. Sometimes I don’t even realize I am making a mortal transaction, and she flashes me a glimpse at the home in hell, which I am currently signing a lease on. I can always count on her to suck the joy out of anything mildly indulgent and absolutely destroy something of true guilty pleasure.

How was it that this accountant missed my most egregious purchases last night?

Could she possibly think I earned those rewards? Is it possible that even she, as an active part of this flawed human, is not looking forward to the nausea of the months ahead? Do you she needs a new habit as much as me? I can’t figure it. But I know things have to get pretty extreme for her to let me get away with greed, gluttony and vanity. She is not one for missing a single sin, much less three.

I didn’t miss her, but I feel a little unhinged. I don’t normally find myself without checks and balances. I don’t normally initiate any transactions without a clear picture of the fiery ring, which will be mine come judgment day. Sister Sin rarely misses an opportunity to illustrate my inevitable fate, in excruciating detail.

So, I look at my new handbag and have to suspend my disbelief. Could it be with her blessing that I have it? Is it a gift? A gift because even she didn’t see this whole RA-thing coming?

I think she believed, just like me, that we wholly determined our own destiny. Obviously, that is not true, without a moments notice, a life can change. It can become something different and alter in ways that could not have been predicted or controlled. When those moments arrive, it is with true grace that all of us step out of the way and let those affected experience life in a unique way—we allow them to interact with the world as a privileged guest instead of a host.

I think Sister Sin did something quite remarkable yesterday. She reserved judgment on someone, who has more on their plate than they can comfortably swallow.

And with that, I take the pills, which I was prescribed.