At the inevitable intervention, I see events playing out as this.
I know I need help, okay? I know it. And I’m sorry. But that’s why I’ve been getting therapy since the tender age of thirteen. And I know, I know, this immersion technique is somewhat controversial, plopping me right in the middle of temptation only to have me dabble in the destructive behaviors anyway. But still, I believe in it. I believe in therapy.
Retail therapy.
Nothing heals my soul more than a cashmere blanket, wooden bangles, creamed eye shadow, floral bath products (oooh, sugar scrubs), shirtdresses, crisp denim or sultry sandals.
Unless it’s heavy, hardcover books, starched linen, sea scallops, obscure CDs, glossies (Money, Vogue for the ads, Glamour, Real Simple, Newsweek, O, The New Yorker sometimes, Fortune, New York), air spritzers in colored tea scents, broccolini, boxes of stationary, socks, swatches of fabric, scraps of ribbon, bundles of bright wool yarn, notebooks and note cards, toilet bowl cleaner.
Hell, I even snapped up a drill once to install some shelving, and floated all afternoon on the wave of my new purchase.
Not that I didn’t need all those "trinkets".
Not that I precisely did need them, either.
But I had use, or made use for them, and out the billfold came. I love the passing of items, the boxed clothes, the new-anything smell. I love finding vintage, the tinkle of delicate jewelry, amassing painted glass. Buying presents for family and friends just because. Reverse shopping double-thrills. Flipping these wonders a few months later in plastic bags full, freshly laundered and gently used items handed to the Salvation Army reclaims the rush. *
Some would tout shopping in New York as better than dating in New York. I’ll steer clear of weighing in on that with one comment off the record.
The shopping-for anything-is really, really good.
Though I’m not quite sure if I’m being cured of or merely exposed to a contagious strain of the gimmes.
*Echoeing the soul-soothing are the donated portions of each paycheck to the Wild African Elephant Fund, a rape center in Salt Lake City, and a children’s refugee charity. Or spending a Saturday in Queens painting murals at an underprivileged school. Though, admittedly, none of this is nearly enough for one person, and I realize I should be giving much, much more in return. And I plan to.
I know I need help, okay? I know it. And I’m sorry. But that’s why I’ve been getting therapy since the tender age of thirteen. And I know, I know, this immersion technique is somewhat controversial, plopping me right in the middle of temptation only to have me dabble in the destructive behaviors anyway. But still, I believe in it. I believe in therapy.
Retail therapy.
Nothing heals my soul more than a cashmere blanket, wooden bangles, creamed eye shadow, floral bath products (oooh, sugar scrubs), shirtdresses, crisp denim or sultry sandals.
Unless it’s heavy, hardcover books, starched linen, sea scallops, obscure CDs, glossies (Money, Vogue for the ads, Glamour, Real Simple, Newsweek, O, The New Yorker sometimes, Fortune, New York), air spritzers in colored tea scents, broccolini, boxes of stationary, socks, swatches of fabric, scraps of ribbon, bundles of bright wool yarn, notebooks and note cards, toilet bowl cleaner.
Hell, I even snapped up a drill once to install some shelving, and floated all afternoon on the wave of my new purchase.
Not that I didn’t need all those "trinkets".
Not that I precisely did need them, either.
But I had use, or made use for them, and out the billfold came. I love the passing of items, the boxed clothes, the new-anything smell. I love finding vintage, the tinkle of delicate jewelry, amassing painted glass. Buying presents for family and friends just because. Reverse shopping double-thrills. Flipping these wonders a few months later in plastic bags full, freshly laundered and gently used items handed to the Salvation Army reclaims the rush. *
Some would tout shopping in New York as better than dating in New York. I’ll steer clear of weighing in on that with one comment off the record.
The shopping-for anything-is really, really good.
Though I’m not quite sure if I’m being cured of or merely exposed to a contagious strain of the gimmes.
*Echoeing the soul-soothing are the donated portions of each paycheck to the Wild African Elephant Fund, a rape center in Salt Lake City, and a children’s refugee charity. Or spending a Saturday in Queens painting murals at an underprivileged school. Though, admittedly, none of this is nearly enough for one person, and I realize I should be giving much, much more in return. And I plan to.
7 comments:
Maybe you have a rare form of Shopping Herpes. Maybe.
It's good to offset compulsive shopping with worthwhile charitable efforts. Eventually, if you give enough back it evens out. Sounds like you are doing more than lots of kids your age in that respect.
Oh yes, I am a consumer as well, and it DOES help. It IS therapeutic...until that bill comes. Wooden bangles never really made me feel that good, though. :)
I can't believe I'm saying this. But the toilet bowl cleaner thing...right there with ya.
I can't help it. I love pure clean.
I love shopping. I've been good lately, avoiding much loved home furnishing shops and only drooling at my Restoration Hardware and Bonbay Company catalogues and imagining what this or that item would add to my little "home". I find avoidance is the best remedy for me...as much as I hate it.
Cashmere=love!
Shopping is the answer to all our problems. I'm about to go solve some tomorrow.
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