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I don’t think of myself as working class, but a trip to an upscale mall this week put a reality in my face that was hard to deny.

Confession:  I buy most of my clothes from Target, and even those are often their deal of the week or clearanced.  I have not bought a new piece of furniture in seven years and then I rolled it into my mortgage.

On the said shopping trip, I bought two cushions for my wicker chairs (I actually have four, but I just couldn’t commit on all of them) at Pottery Barn.  They were on sale.

We walked into furniture stores that were reasonably priced, but I couldn’t imagine       spending the money.  We walked past clothing stores fronted with enticing windows that I knew I could not afford.  I popped into White House Black Market to check out an adorable little striped knit dress and popped right back out when I saw the $138 price tag.

I’m sure Target will have a knock off for under $30.

I don’t want to be materialistic, but how does a person stay true to what they have defined as important when the seduction of the material is all around and its ambassadors are so well-trained and well-armed thanks to modern polling and psychology?

Because I still think $138 for that dress is silly, but I don’t want my life to be a knock off.  As if my clothes and where I buy them define my life.  That’s just the evil voice inside my head.  And on my tv.  And in my magazines.  And on the billboards alongside the road.  And on my radio.

Ohm.  Ohm.  Ohm.

No wonder Madonna turned to yoga.