It costs more money for me to work, than it does to play.

So, as most of you know, I am gainfully employed at a little company that is responsible for publishing two magazines tailored toward professional women and men here in Austin. As you can probably imagine, my distant dreams of working in a fast-paced, political, obviously not eco-friendly, and inconveniently located office have finally come true!

While seemingly unfortunate, working for a local publication has its perks. For instance, we garner a lot of attention from various community-sponsored events and/or big wigs in a number of societies within Austin. Every month, once our magazine has been put to bed, we host a launch party for all of our advertisers, prospective clients and obsessive readers. Basically, we throw a party and give each other alcohol-induced high fives for doing our job. Moreover, on top of our own soirees, companies and organizations alike invite us  to galas, benefits, parties, happy hours, sporting events, showcases and any other affair that would forge even the slightest social scene.

"Sadie, would you mind telling me what your humble-bragging point is?"

Observe:

Prior to the monthly closing date of our magazines, the art director, fashion editor and a photographer all assemble their stupid talent into a whirlwind of creative splendor and style a product shoot.

1. I hate them all for being my age and having my dream job(s).
2. During these shoots, I am absolutely not working due to my fierce staring laser beams of jealousy getting in the way of my computer.
3. The more I gaze drool longingly at our fashion editor while she brings in the bags upon bags of luxuriously expensive couture from Saks Fifth Avenue the more I am aware of what is fashionable/trendy/not in my closet*. 

*Often, on the evening of these wonderful wonderful shoots, I will go home and I will stand in my closet. I will stand in my closet and I will shake my head in utter disgust. Then, I will stew over my apparel timeline and try to pinpoint the exact moment that I crossed over to the world of unfashionable. Now, obviously, when I partake in this self-loathing I'm drunk off of unattainable, expensive trends. Otherwise, if anyone else stood in  my closet they would label me an ensemble-glutton with a bad habit of buying Little Black Dresses.

Basically, unless my salary goes up considerably - I won't have the income to foot the bill for all this shit! I'm braving the catty world of social elitists and I cannot be seen in the same dress twice. These people are straight-up Real Housewives of Austin status. Except, replace "Real Housewives" and insert "Bewilderingly Successful & Self-Established Socialites".

So, the financially tumultuous point I'm trying to make is this:

Lest I buy a dress, a pair of shoes and - for accessory's sake - the occasional necklace, bi-monthly, for the rest of my career...

I'll die.