[And finds that retail therapy is a myth.]
If there is one thing I truly hate, it is shopping for clothes. The battle between my body, my pocket and the fitting room mirror is never fun, and nobody seems to win.
In the aisle — Think of all the things that must be considered while buying a single piece of clothing. Does the cut flatter me? Is it available in my size? Is this a good color? Is it too expensive? Is it natural or synthetic? Does this pattern make me look fat? Is it suitable for work? For fun? Will hubby like it? Is it too bold? Too safe? Too..something?
After running each item that catches my attention through the mental checklist, I deposit it in my cart and head towards the fitting room. At a 'sale', even this simple act is fraught with risks. Now that I'm older, and maybe a little wiser, I no longer attempt to shop during sales. It might turn me off wearing clothes altogether.
In the fitting room — I have twelve items of clothing and there is one hook on the wall. One hook. And that measly little wooden piece sticking out of the wall where I always forget my cellphone. For the next twenty minutes, I try to juggle between my own clothes, the clothes I want to buy, the clothes I reject, the clothes I need to look for in different size and color, hangers, and the conversation going on in the next cubicle. [ Do you think I have a pooch? You don't have a pooch. Does my bum look big in this? Nope. Okay, so should I buy it? No. Why? I don't know..it makes you look..kinda..old, you know. ] Fitting rooms are where the real S&M takes place, trust me.
Today, it took me three trials with ten items each to find five pieces that I like. Days like this, I believe Adam and Eve had it good. Why wear clothes when God made leaves? They come in all shapes, sizes and colors and are cheap and biodegradable. Grow a couple of trees in your backyard and have your own little clothes factory..imagine the convenience. I start losing myself in the happy reverie until the bell pings, indicating there are other people in line to torture their souls.
At the sales counter — Would you like to apply for a card? No thanks. You would qualify for an extra ten percent off, that would mean twenty dollars off your total. I know, but no thanks. We also have a special offer...at this point, I give her my most pained 'why don't you just kill me?' look that is usually reserved for husband when I'm PMSing. It does the trick. I escape and sprint towards my car, reveling in the freedom.
No more shopping for next six months!! Yayy!!