Some people use shopping as therapy. I need therapy after I go shopping.
I just despise it. I feel like I’m feeding a consumerism machine and in return its spewing at me lies about beauty and worth.
But its a necessary evil and unfortunately I am down to my last pair of pants. I couldn’t keep pretending they were going to appear less used. So I stole away from my home in the dark of night to scour my city for at least a pair of pants. Its time away that I’d rather spend going to a gallery opening or reading at a coffee house.
It could be the fluorescent lights and manipulation I feel in the stores, or perhaps its the stress of finding something that not only fits, but is affordable. . . whatever it is its never a pleasant experience. I know I’m different in this respect than most. I’m ok with that.
It so hard to locate styles that reflect me and not just the latest trend or on the other end, just whatever is comfortable. At one point during my excursion, as I was flipping through my millionth clothing rack I made an observation.
My mind plays a repetitive soundtrack:
Flip. . .flip. . . so sleepy. . . flip. . . who am I? . . .flip. . .who am I?. .flip . . . who wears this stuff anyway?. . .wait a minute. . .here’s something. . . nope false alarm. . .WHO AM I?
So as you can see, shopping becomes an identity crisis I’d rather avoid.