Confessions of a nonshopaholic

By Lisa A. Eramo

Unlike the majority of women in the world, shopping for clothes is not something I do for fun. It's not something I do on a rainy day. It's not an addiction. It's not a form of therapy. For me, shopping for clothes is something that you practically have to drag me to do. And yes, I will kick and scream in the process.

So for someone who hates to go clothes shopping, you might wonder how I have any clothes at all. Well, I don't. I mean, I have a few hand-me-downs--socks where my big toe sometimes sticks through, worn out pants (you know, the ones where the inner thighs are so worn that you can practically stick your hand through), some shirts that say "Class of 97." Thank god for washing machines, or else I'd be wearing my birthday suite just about every day.

But when reality hits (and it always does), I am reminded that unless I wanted to go live in the wild like a cave woman (or quit my job and become a full-time knitter), I need clothes. This realization usually hits me around the holidays when not only is it cold out (and thus my need for clothes is heightened), but it's also gift giving season--a time of cork screws, Santa socks, and yes, gift cards.

Ah, the beauty of gift cards. Though some may see the gift card as the perfect gift for the picky, it's not necessarily true. I mean, the person who buys the gift card makes a conscious decision as to where you're going to shop just by the sheer act of buying you a card to a particular store.

But after all, it's the thought that counts, right? I kept telling myself that one day when my partner and I decided to go shopping at a local clothing store. Although I didn't have a gift card, I did have some coupons that my partner was very excited to use. Coupons: another reason to go shopping. Spend money to save money.

So my partner and I walked into the store ready for a shopping adventure. She was immediately drawn to some shirts that apparently were "calling her name," although I swore I didn't hear them speaking out loud. Meanwhile, I went to look at some pants only to be discouraged that they didn't come in petite length. While I was fuming about why clothes designers tend to discriminate against short people, I could see that my partner was striking gold near a sale rack, her arms already covered with enough outfits to last for two weeks.

I turned my attention to some shirts in the back on a rack where there was no rhyme or reason to the sizes. It was as though the shirts were saying,"Don't mind us, we're hiding back here with the misfits trying to go unnoticed." I was trying to calculate how many of the misfit shirts I could buy with my coupon when I heard my partner laughing with one of the saleswoman, their high-pitched shrieks seeming to perfectly punctuate the elevator music that pervaded the store.

It didn't surprise me that my partner had hit it off with Ms. CanIHelpYou. My partner's extremely attractive cheerful attitude seems to draw strangers to her. It's as if she wears a sign on her forehead that says "Come, tell me your troubles...I will listen." It's this attitude that has engaged us in countless strange conversations with cashiers at the gas station, bag boys at the grocery store, waiters, or even strangers on the street. People open up to her (and therefore us), and before I know, I know how much money is in the person's savings account, what book he or she is reading, what his or her political views are, and sometimes even his or her medical history.

I decided to walk over and see what all the fun and laughter was about in the hopes that some of their cheerfulness would rub off on me and make my shopping experience more delightful. I stood there for several minutes listening to Ms. CanIHelpYou tell my partner how she could mix and match several items on her arm (and should therefore buy all of them), how the jacket she held matched the color of her eyes, how she should treat herself to one of everything in the store.

After Ms. CanIHelpYou finished her plethora of compliments, she set us up with a dressing room.

"Wouldn't you each like your own room?" she said.

I quickly chimed in with an emphatic "no!" to indicate that we could share. Ms. CanIHelpYou raised an eyebrow, but quickly walked down to the larger dressing room and opened the door with a smile. Having my own dressing room would be like setting a domesticated animal into the savage wild outdoors. I'm typically left not knowing where to turn or what to do. I end up standing there like a dog with its tail between its legs before finally realizing that this is the part where I actually need to put the dreaded new clothes onto my body and stare at myself in the mirror like all other women do.

Once in the dressing room together, my partner quickly unloaded her wardrobe of clothes, leaving me to hang my two shirts on the door knob. She breathed a sigh of relief and gawked at her purchases-to-be for a few moments, trying to take it all in before trying things on. Her excitement and giddiness made me feel as though we had just purchased a house together and that we were admiring the dimensions of the rooms. I'm sure that if we had stood there long enough, our address would have quickly become 401 Dressing Room Lane and someone would be knocking on our door to drop off a welcome-to-the-neighborhood package.

Okay, back to reality. I tried my shirts on only to realize that I had accidentally grabbed the wrong size. My partner, being the helpful person that she is, volunteered to go out into the store and grab a different size for me. While she is gone, I count the tiles on the ceiling and imagine that this is how inmates must feel, being confined to such a small space.

Just as my partner returns with a few more shirts, I hear someone in another cell calling her over. She hands me the shirts and says she'll be right back. I can barely hear their conversation:

"Would you mind just fixing this strap?" the other inmate said.

"Um, no, sure, I can do that for you," my partner said.

"How do you think this bra looks? Is it too big? Too small?"

"Um, I'm not sure."

"Can you stand there while I readjust myself?"

At this point, I'm getting suspicious. What the heck is going on out there? Where is Ms. CanIHelpYou when you need her??

"Can you help me take my bra off? Unhook the latches in the back?"

Finally my partner tells this woman that she does not work at the store.

On comes the light bulb.

"Oh my gosh, I am so embarrassed!" the woman said. "I just thought that you...well, I saw you getting shirts for someone...I apologize."

My partner and I shared a good laugh over that one. I could hear Ms. CanIHelpYou helping other customers shortly thereafter, and I'm sure our cackling made her wonder whether we were serious about buying all of the clothes we had dragged in there or whether we were having some sort of wacky show-and-tell fashion show.

Maybe shopping isn't so bad after all.