When James asked me the other day if I thought I was materialistic, my first response was: not really. (My very first response was a primitive fear that yes yes yes and my need for things is going to ruin my life, but I swallowed it.) I don't get my nails done or highlight my hair (yet. I think the summer would like me a little blonder). I own 3 pairs of jeans, one of which has holes in inobvious places. My house is small-ish. I don't know. Not more materialistic than most middle class Americans.
I've been thinking about it this week, though. I *love* the rug in my bedroom. One of the things I inherited from my dad. In addition to really tying the room together, it makes it feel warm and sort of grown up and very fancy. I seriously covet my roommate's kitchenaid (have you seen this thing food process? Heaven. And I made my first batch of cookie dough in it last night and was so pleased) and am pretty sure I'm not going to be able to live a full life without one of my own. And I was looking around at some of the things I have hanging on my wall and they bring me so much contentment.
And this isn't an apology, so much as just kind of a confessional. I really love pretty things. I really love my pretty things.