I prefer to shop alone. But let me tell you why.

Not so very long ago, I went shopping.  It’s usually a love/hate recreational blood sport, for me; when it happens,  under the guise of shopping with others, I like to get in, get done, and get out.  No holds barred, no time for stragglers, and definitely no time for Buckle employees.  I’m not so keen on “group shopping”, or “couples shopping.” 

For whatever reason, truth be told, I prefer to shop alone.

I can become rather delusional, in my personal shopping, not knowing when to say when.  My previous attempts at shopping with others is probably a more normal cycle for a shopper:  for instance, I usually find “that” pair of pants, or “that” style of shirt, with “those” shoes, and then just convince myself to alternate ways of wearing them every single day, plus Febreze, in order to shorten the shopping-with-others-experience.  I mean, after all, what’s the point of buying items that can’t withstand some long-term wear and tear?  I could go for long periods of time not buying new clothes when shopping with others, simply because I shoot for pleasure with what I do purchase, when under the duress of “shared time”…and, also, because truthfully, I don’t really want the company. 

But when I do shop, and it’s alone, I go bananas. 

I don’t know what comes over me, or where that mood comes from, but I just go to a store and can’t stop buying, and I get drunk on the idea that I’m not with anyone else who’s constantly wristwatching. 

Of course, I come home with the most ridiculous things, which usually end up as presents.  When I remember to give gifts, that is.  I have some bizarre mental block on people’s birthdays and anniversaries, and Christmases.  It’s not that I’m entirely selfish, I like to give, you know, it’s just that I have trouble doing anything even remotely considerate sometimes.  I’m insular, like that.  I don’t actively seek to avoid or forget birthdays, and the like, it just happens. 

A couple of weeks ago, on a Sunday, I went home to eat (Sunday dinners are like Must-See-TV in my family) and lo and behold, there sat a ginormous (this is now an official word and adjective; I use it here for the sole purpose of proving my advocacy of evolving language, despite the fact that I think the word is completely stupidiculous) birthday cake.

I looked at Nana, and I said, Oh great, whose it this time?  Whose birthday am I missing today? And she said, with the saddest sound she could muster (simply to tease me), and the biggest, roundest eyes available from Merle Norman, and said, The baby’s.

The baby’s, though he’s not the baby anymore; he was just the first.  I missed my own, oldest nephew’s birthday.  I mean, how could I.

Anyway. 

Back to shopping.

So, awhile back, my Brazilian physical therapist-friend and I went away for a weekend (to a wedding, really, and personally speaking, can that just stop?  I’m a little tired of everyone I know getting married, it’s exhausting…). 

He couldn’t leave the hospital for a couple of hours and that was all the instigation I needed, the mood ever-lurking sprung again.  I went to the mall and bought, bought, bought…And why?  I have no idea.  I didn’t really need anything…for crying out loud, last Thursday I crawled back into my closet, I mean into the back of my closet, to retrieve the left shoe, as it were, and found a box in which were laying two brand new shirts that I’d forgotten I had…that kind of thing happens a lot.

I digress, so…aside from the usual fares (food court, drinks, etc.), and being accosted by a young man from Israel (he said) trying to sell me dead sea salt body scrub – and here, at this point, I will have to create a word to describe this experience, after he hassled me into a 20-minute demonstration at his kiosk I…actually, that word might just do it:  Yes. I think it will, all right World, here’s another new word, a verb denoting aggressive sales tactics and behavior, I was without a doubt kiosked – I didn’t know how to disengage, I tried to walk away but he attempted to follow me…I had no choice but to break into a sprint and throw myself at the mercy of those in Hot Topic.  Word to the wise, they are not interested in mercy at Hot Topic; they are not allowed to smile, apparently. 

…and then this happened:

When Pedro got to the mall, he needed to buy some new shoes, to go with his suit. Obviously, not in Hot Topic.

So, I accompanied him to several stores. 

I was wearing my devstating pink onesie. No, no…it was just a short sleeve, a la polo, but all the same, I did look fairly dashing in it; I look good in pink (now that’s irony). And I was holding up a pair of shoes to show him (a pair that I was in the process of making fun of), when this elderly woman pushing a stroller of twins, I think, in the aisle behind me, said, to her alleged daughter, or perhaps, daughter-in-law, who am I to judge?,  

“A man who wears pink just isn’t afraid of anything, is he?”

I turned to her, and replied, “Except of these shoes, am I right?  Am I right? Who wears loafers, anymore, huh?”

She did, apparently.

Talk about awkward.

The wedding was nice, though.  Hot, it was outside, but still…nice.

Related Posts:

• That’s how we bring up all children in our family: by ear.
• Because hands can do everything but lie.
• I think "nice flip-flops" is an oxymoron.
• He'd just always wanted a hearse, he said.
• The Dollar Bill Incentive, Or, Being Good For Nothing.