Your favorite — uh, right? — intrepid columnist is sitting in bed at 2 a.m., in imported silk pajamas and Coke-bottle spectacles, wondering: “Did my perception on life really need to be adjusted with retail therapy abuse and a conversation with an ex about my cup size?”

I wish I was kidding, but the state of the hour and the belly of warm Scotch demands a certain level of candor.

Last month, upon receiving my annual bonus and tax refund, I indulged in a ridiculous amount of retail therapy. This was partially prompted by the fact that I can no longer squeeze into my college jeans and partially because I’ve developed an unhealthy addiction to cute, pointy, high-heeled shoes. The resulting transformation from dorky geek-chick to girly cute is not one that should be taken lightly, even with the slightly wider waistband. Coupled with a devil-may-care-dirty-30 attitude, the results can be dangerous. I feel like a cross between a Bond Girl and Grace Kelly, coupled with a little bit of Bridget Jones. This is, and the men have noticed as well, a peculiar and intriguing cocktail.

But this was not always the case.

Growing up in Michigan, I felt like an anomaly: an odd gal who stuck out primarily because my ears had outpaced the growth spurt of my head by several months, and because my lunch involved some sort of Spam concoction. That and the fact that my home smelled of dried cuttle fish and kimchi, and all the remote controls in the house were hermetically sealed with Saran Wrap because the Kim family is more likely to channel surf while sucking down ribs than locate napkins. The Kim family is, as my father would say, “the best kind” of people, but we were not glamorous.

Glamour and sophistication were outside our realm and scope of experience. Sunday mornings weren’t “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” but more along the lines of WWF practice before and while en route to church. Explaining a rug burn against my cheek during confession was an all too common occurrence. And the strip malls and restaurant chains provided little exposure to high culture and sophistication. Imagine trying to pair a French columbard with your TGIF hot wings?

So when folks (despite my previous protests) compared yours truly to Carrie Bradshaw of “Sex in the City” fame, I would consistently scoff, burp and snort/giggle through my nose, more like Ernie from “Sesame Street” than Sarah Jessica Parker.

This month has been completely different. My adventures have been numerous and even border on fiction. I have received VIP tickets for baseball games, gone to the ballet, been squired around Napa Valley and its numerous wineries by an incorrigible gentleman, and have been spoiled with a volcanic-ash mud wrap and lavender oil scalp massage. This, of course, followed up with massage and sauna. I have attended black-tie galas while wearing red Italian silk and been wooed by a saucy Aussie who invited me out for body shots. I’ve shared cocktails with diplomats and been invited to Phuket, Saigon and Bogota. Photographs that I posed for will be in an art show at the end of the month. And gentlemen have whispered charming stories about trebuchets and palaces while refilling my glass with champagne. In short, my life has been Fabulous.