I swanned into the city today, 3 hours before my pedicure, thinking I’d pick up a dress and shoes for the races on Saturday. Yes, that’s right, I am going to Flemington on Saturday, and I still have the tiny matter of a dress and shoes to find.

I walked into David Jones, thinking I’d kill a number of designers with one stone. Alas, as I circled the store, nothing was jumping out at me. Then, there in the corner, I spotted it. A fabulous vintage inspired, tea cup style dress, that enveloped the cleavage, cinched in the waist and ever so forgiving for the pear shapes amongst us. This was too easy I thought, I’d only been in the store for 10 minutes, and there it was. Alas – they only had a size 8 or 14. I haven’t been a size 8 since I was a packet a day smoker a few years ago, and even though my post winter fat crisis is still lingering into spring, I am not a size 14 either. Not to be defeated, I took the size 8 into the change room, thinking I might be able to squeeze myself into it. My thighs agreed, yet my DD cleavage had other ideas.

After hours of searching the racks, my heels starting begging me for mercy, and I decided it was time to abandon my visions of a feminine ethereal muted pink look with Sophia Lauren come hither smoky eyes, and just find anything, anything that looked good on me. After expanding my colour palette, I came across an aubergine $1500 dress that had been reduced to half price, and then was another 75% off. Yes, this was it. This was the dress I had been waiting for. This time, my thighs had other ideas. After witnessing the sight in the change room mirror, I immediately panged for a cigarette. Since I no longer partake in the habit, I instead felt the need for wine to be intravenously injected into me, whilst I continued my quest for a dress that flattered my va va voom figure.

It was time for a new destination. I rolled up my sleeves with determination, ready for round 2 and hit Melbourne Central. Shop after shop, I was met with mediocrity and sales assistants that quite frankly gave me the shits. When you’re on a mission and entering store after store in succession, you soon tire of their repetitious meaningless chit chat. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” “How’s the weather out there today?” Here’s what I have to say, “fuck off and leave me alone whilst I’m shopping”. If I want help, I’ll ask for it.

After coming up with nothing, it was definitely time to regroup and hit my beloved city laneways for a vino before my pedicure. After a delightful glass of sauv blanc restored serenity to thy soul, I went to the day spa and had my nails laquered in french pink. After a lovely chat with my therapist (who understood the perfect balance of conversation and letting me read some trashy magazines without interrupting me), I exited the spa with renewed vigour for round 3. Flinders Lane and GPO, surely had to have something for me. I was now prepared to blow out my budget, in the name of being able to return home, crack a bottle of wine and put my feet up.

I wish I could report tales of happily ever after, as I pour my 3rd glass of wine. However, I now face the arduous task of finding a glamour worthy dress and shoes, and squeezing in a hair cut, colour, eye brow wax and manicure tomorrow. Yes, it’s a race to the finish line, and the odds may be against me, but I’m positioning myself to be 3 lengths in front this time tomorrow.

Giddyup!