Yesterday, I shopped, as in spent the entire afternoon going from store to store trying on clothing and buying additions to my fall wardrobe. You might not think this is a big deal, but for someone who hasn’t taken an afternoon off to shop in probably five years, it was quite an experience.
Let me preface the details by saying that, in the recent past, I’ve run into one store or another when I was desperate for a costume to wear that evening. I bought on the fly, so to speak. Or, given adequate time, I’ve done the catalogue-shopping thing, dialing in my order and avoiding retail stores altogether.
But today I determined to do what it took firsthand to fill in the blanks of my wardrobe. I’d gone through my closet, made a list of items, and picked the stores where I might be most successful. I remembered to wear clothing that was easy on, easy off to facilitate trying things on in the dressing rooms. I didn’t wear extensive make-up either.
I visited several stores in our local mall; and, as I walked from one to the other, I noticed how the culture of shopping is different from when I was a regular. Cell phones abound, and I heard more than one conversation that went like this: “What do you think about the purple one? Should I get a large or a medium? I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
When I last shopped people were on their own. Color and size were not committee decisions. At the same time, I saw more than one woman, presumably the mother, being relatively calm and patient while her offspring searched for the right item . . . because she was talking on her cell phone. I also saw a couple teenagers equally zoned out, because they were listening to their iPods while their mothers shopped.
Some things hadn’t changed: mostly notably, the number of shoe stores and the jewelry stores in a mall. I’ve always thought they procreated excessively. But the final reminder of why I don’t like to shop came when I parked in Target’s massive parking lot without noticing where my car was. This lack of attention haunted me later, as I roamed from row to row laden with shopping bags of sweatshirts and workout gear searching for my license plate,
I finally found my little Neon, and it will probably be another five years before I venture forth again.
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