Shiny Things
Saturday evening, in a fit of materialism, I decided that I ought to own more than just the four pairs of pants. So I charted out my plan of attack and psyched myself up to do battle at the mall. I picked out my sturdiest combat uniform and my largest, best-for-accidentally-on-purpose-whopping-people-out-of-the-way purse. I slept eight hours in preparation.
I’m a wanderer only in life, never in retail. I shop strategically. I’m no fun to browse around with, because unless you move as fast as I do – and you don’t – I will leave you in line at Sbarro and be back with six bags and a hatbox before you’ve finished your calzone. I make a plan, I go it alone, and I get it done. So, I set out on Sunday intending for my trip to be clean and short. I figured on three stores, twenty minutes at each, including dressing room and line time. In an hour I’d be in an overstuffed chair at the bookstore, my preferred weekend destination.
But, only minutes into my shopping mission, something went terribly wrong. My pace slowed, my pulse quickened, and I let my purse/weapon fall uselessly to the floor. I stood in store windows gaping for full minutes, throwing myself completely off-schedule. It was a velvet coat, then a platinum necklace, then a glittered snowflake ornament, then a sequined placemat. It didn’t matter what it was; the more light it reflected, the more I wanted it. Those display designers – the evil geniuses – had figured out my weakness: shiny things. In the time it took to say, “Do you have that in white gold?”, the plan was totally done for. I wandered, sauntered through every store on every floor, taking hours, missing nothing, finding reason after reason to wish I were a Trump. Or a Hilton. Or a Rockefeller. Someone.
I didn't buy anything, but I did make a list. Today, during my three o'clock zone-out, I outlined dozens of items that I want, I want, I want. Then I estimated their collective cost, a need-to-know should I decide to present myself with all of them. Which I probably will. I'll dump out the jar of change, search the coat pockets, call Switzerland, whatever. And, yes, it's selfish, ugly greed. The inevitable result, I suppose, of my own image coming at me from the shiny green surface of ten-thousand Christmas bulbs. But this list isn't going anywhere. Not to Santa, not anymore. I make a plan, I go it alone, I get it done.
Just don't distract me.
I’m a wanderer only in life, never in retail. I shop strategically. I’m no fun to browse around with, because unless you move as fast as I do – and you don’t – I will leave you in line at Sbarro and be back with six bags and a hatbox before you’ve finished your calzone. I make a plan, I go it alone, and I get it done. So, I set out on Sunday intending for my trip to be clean and short. I figured on three stores, twenty minutes at each, including dressing room and line time. In an hour I’d be in an overstuffed chair at the bookstore, my preferred weekend destination.
But, only minutes into my shopping mission, something went terribly wrong. My pace slowed, my pulse quickened, and I let my purse/weapon fall uselessly to the floor. I stood in store windows gaping for full minutes, throwing myself completely off-schedule. It was a velvet coat, then a platinum necklace, then a glittered snowflake ornament, then a sequined placemat. It didn’t matter what it was; the more light it reflected, the more I wanted it. Those display designers – the evil geniuses – had figured out my weakness: shiny things. In the time it took to say, “Do you have that in white gold?”, the plan was totally done for. I wandered, sauntered through every store on every floor, taking hours, missing nothing, finding reason after reason to wish I were a Trump. Or a Hilton. Or a Rockefeller. Someone.
I didn't buy anything, but I did make a list. Today, during my three o'clock zone-out, I outlined dozens of items that I want, I want, I want. Then I estimated their collective cost, a need-to-know should I decide to present myself with all of them. Which I probably will. I'll dump out the jar of change, search the coat pockets, call Switzerland, whatever. And, yes, it's selfish, ugly greed. The inevitable result, I suppose, of my own image coming at me from the shiny green surface of ten-thousand Christmas bulbs. But this list isn't going anywhere. Not to Santa, not anymore. I make a plan, I go it alone, I get it done.
Just don't distract me.
posted by Tracy at 11:47 PM
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