I actually loathe shopping but I kind of shopped until I dropped today. Really, I closed down H&M. The only reason I had to do that is because 80% of the clothing there was a size 4 (not my size), so I spent 80% of my time in there looking for the things I wanted in my size.
Like I said, I hate to shop. Clearly. No, really, I’m not kidding. I don’t hate malls though. I go to the mall to walk laps and people watch and enjoy air conditioning. Finding things that I can afford and fit me properly is an arduous task. Just thinking about it fills me with dread and a sense of great burden, which is why a lot of the clothes I’ve worn over the past two years were handed down from a dear friend who likes shopping and probably delights in trying things on, getting feedback from the salespeople, etc. When I think of trying on clothes I think of getting all sweaty while trying to maneuver awkward fastenings, bows, and armholes, all under the glow of a fluorescent light and in front of a judgmental three-way mirror. Stacey and Clinton from “What Not to Wear” might as well be in the background “tsk-tsk”ing at me.
But today I got some kind of bug- the same bug that possesses those women who must be so entitled and walk into stores knowing exactly what they want. There are probably several garments of which I am desperately in need, but today’s goal was to procure that magical elusive brassier that supports and separates and lifts. Well, maybe the saleslady was just too good because she found me several bras that fit, and she was such a sweet little thing, I almost felt like she deserved a tip. I didn’t tip her, but I did not deny myself the magical brassieres.
I did feel a bit of entitlement. “I deserve to have good help from the salespeople,” I told myself. “I deserve to have comfortable clothes that fit, and if that means indulging in a shopping spree once in a while, it’s all good.” Still not satisfied with my positive self-talk, and panicking that maybe I was in a manic state since that’s the only conceivable way I would be comfortable shopping and enjoying myself, I went through a checklist in my mind to abate my anxiety:
- Can I afford it?
- Do I need it?
- Is this something that I do routinely to satisfy some kind of manic urge to shop with reckless abandon?
I answered yes to the first two and no to the third. I felt relief wash over me upon realizing that doing something nice for myself and expecting good service at a store does not make me one of those “entitled” people, nor does it mean I’m reckless. It just means I’m human, enjoying being a young single woman, and I don’t have to have a case of double-boob while I do it.