Wednesday, 04 May 2011

• A Shopaholic's Ode to Shopping (What Else?)

  
  It all starts with a glance – true love.  You look up and see, well, something special.  Before you know it, you can't stop thinking about them. They way they look, the way they make you feel inside.  You start imagining how it would feel to touch them, caress them even.  You think about them until you’re walking down the street and can't take it any longer; so you make a bee line right for them.  Anyone in your way, watch out!  You're taking no prisoners. They're going home with you tonight.  Yes, that off-the-shoulder top, those skinny jeans, and that pair of six-inch pumps.  Oh, did you think I meant a guy?  Sorry, you’re thinking of Datingish.com – you should probably check that out later.
  
  Once you’ve seen an awesome outfit up close, there’s simply no turning back.  If you consider yourself to be a shopaholic and actually live up to the name, then this blog entry should resonate with you.  I have had relationships with shoes that have lasted way longer than any relationship I’ve ever had with a guy.  Why?  Clothes and shoes just…get me.  They call my name.  I live for the rush I get when I walk into a new (or familiar) store that carries clothes that are “so my style.”  No matter how down I am that day, shopping is an instant cure.  Some people eat when they’re having a bad time of things, some people get drunk – me?  I get high – off shopping.  It’s way better on your body and your liver – and you even get a pretty good cardio workout out of it if the store is big enough.
  
  This past week I took a trip to Atlantic City.  Unlike my boyfriend, who lost the $600 he went with to the roulette-wheel-of-death, the casino does not do anything for me.  It the shops I gravitate toward.  A new store, Francesca’s Collections, opened up about two months ago at the Tropicana.  It’s a chic shop with an awesome corner location.  Salivating, I walked into it after seeing the uncanny resemblance between the mannequins and myself.  The outfits they had on could have been plucked from my own closet. I was awestruck at the racks and racks of clothing – dresses, tops, skirts, pants.  And then there were the shoes and accessories.  I felt like I had died and gone to fashion Heaven. I could have literally set up a cot in the back, and made myself right at home.
  
  The first time I went in was with my boyfriend, aka, my rock.  Think of him, if you will, as you would an alcoholic’s sponsor.  He holds my hand and gives me looks of death anytime he sees me losing it a little bit, which, as you’ll soon find out, I tend to do in stores.  I purchased two pretty tops and a really cool zebra-print/hot pink contact case holder (which I have totally never seen before but think is an awesome idea!).  Not too bad, right?  Well, than maybe I should tell you about how I completely fell off the I-just-paid-off-my-credit-card wagon.
  
  The next day, I decided to sneak back into the store while the spy was gambling.  The salesgirl, a really cool and stylish young black chick, "oohed" and "aahed" as I made her approve or veto everything I tried on.  She kept saying how good I looked in every single one of the new outfits – and, even though I totally knew she has to say that because it’s her job to sell sell sell – it just added fuel to the fire.  It got to the point where I had scoured the entire store, purchased half of it, and had her go into the window to rip the clothes off the mannequins (my original reason for going into Francesca's).  Yes, I made this poor, sweet girl venture into the window while I stood outside of the shop, motioning to her what I wanted to take. I literally went window-shopping.  As you're probably already picturing, I tend to get a little crazy in the eyes when I'm in the zone.  My hands start to shake a little; I'm nervous when my cell rings.  Nothing must distract me.  Nothing must stand between me and my love.  It's like getting in between a kid and a DS, a fat guy and a Big Mac.  You just don't wanna do it. 
  
  I notice I start posing in the full-length mirrors as if I’m a celebrity on the red carpet on Oscar night.  Fellow shoppers who comment on or compliment the way I look instantly become my new best friends.  Looking back, shopper-mode Jen kind of reminds me of that sex-addict guy that Bree was dating on Desperate Housewives 100 seasons ago.  She kept thinking it wasn’t a real problem, but he kept trying to explain that one misstep could send him into a downward spiral of porn and orgies.  Granted, there are no orgies in my scenario, but trust the situation could get ugly fast all the same.  In my case, "Goodbye paycheck" fast.  I wish I could be angry with myself like a sex-addict or alcoholic usually is after the fact – but, at the end of the day, I just look too damn good in what I bought.
  

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