...my cell phone. Too sexy for my cell phone, too sexy for sure...Scratch that, more like my cell phone is too sexy for me. I am feeling like a total tool this week because I am now the proud owner of a pink razor (wait a minute...I think it's "RAZR" or something) thin little flippy cell phone. My trusty got-on-a-good-deal-over-2-years-ago cell died on Tuesday. Sad day. I managed inbetween skitzo episodes to get all my phone numbers saved to the SIM card so I didn't have to send one of those lame-o emails to all my friends asking what their phone numbers are. We went to the cingular store, checked out online, and really, the little pink phone wasn't a bad deal. The main factor in the purchase was what can we get now that we know we'll still be able to get in the next few months to replace Jims. Sure, I could have gotten a sleak little black LG, but the razor was only $20 more. Plus, the multiple color options were an added bonus if we're going to have two of the same cells in the house (we have no landline - rebels, I know!). But, Jim called the silver one on the premise that the black one has a different finish that looks like it would show scratches more. What Ev. Thus, leaving me no choice but to take the pink one. Or at least that's how I'm trying to justify it.
So little chubby me, in my chinos and t-shirt and flip flops with my go-to-work backpack, who does the crossword and sudoku on the metro ride to work, who still has bad new mommy hair and needs to lose 40lbs, has the same exact phone as Carrie Bradshaw in the last episode of Sex and the City when Big calls and we find out his name is John. I should feel cooler, but I just feel like a poser. I suppose I could bring out the 4" hot pink strappy sandals before summer us over since they'd match my phone in color and attitude, but they just don't go with Old Navy khakis.