At Least I Got a Free Dinner Out of It
I have just recently returned from what could properly be called the "Shopping Death March." And it was about as fun as it sounds.
I have some wonderful teenage cousins who are in town from Arizona, and when they come here to California, they are only interested in doing two things. Shopping and the beach. Anything else is immaterial.
I was invited to come shopping with the girls, six of us in all. My mom, my aunt, me, my sister, and my two cousins aged 13 and 18. We went here, which is one of the fanciest, shmanciest malls around. It has a Juicy Couture, an Apple Store, an Anthropologie, a Lucky Brand, Bloomingdale's, Neiman Marcus, and a bazillion other stores that are so far out of my price range I never even bother to look for something little like earrings because they will cost a small fortune. On sale.
So the shopping went on and on. And on some more. I am not the same "type" of shopper they are. They are what I like to call "drifters." They drift aimlessly from store to store, and insist on pawing through every single item on the sale racks. They waffle, they try a million things on, they decide an hour later that they want to go back to that one store because they want the shirt, even though they didn't like the sleeves when they first tried it on, but now they're not sure.
It drives me nuts.
I am the type of shopper I would like to call "sensible." I wouldn't say I shop like a man, because I do like to browse. But I don't look at every single thing in the store. I can kind of take a sweeping glance and figure out which racks I want to focus on. And if I happen to overlook an item, well, it won't be the end of the world, now will it?
As I was slogging through the crowds, trying to ignore the heated debate about whether a plum or pink hoodie should be purchased, all I could think of was that I was missing my litle boy and how nice sitting on the couch and reading a book would be.
I have apparently made an effortless transition into old fogey at the tender age of thirty five.
Whatever, my feet hurt too much for me to care.
I have some wonderful teenage cousins who are in town from Arizona, and when they come here to California, they are only interested in doing two things. Shopping and the beach. Anything else is immaterial.
I was invited to come shopping with the girls, six of us in all. My mom, my aunt, me, my sister, and my two cousins aged 13 and 18. We went here, which is one of the fanciest, shmanciest malls around. It has a Juicy Couture, an Apple Store, an Anthropologie, a Lucky Brand, Bloomingdale's, Neiman Marcus, and a bazillion other stores that are so far out of my price range I never even bother to look for something little like earrings because they will cost a small fortune. On sale.
So the shopping went on and on. And on some more. I am not the same "type" of shopper they are. They are what I like to call "drifters." They drift aimlessly from store to store, and insist on pawing through every single item on the sale racks. They waffle, they try a million things on, they decide an hour later that they want to go back to that one store because they want the shirt, even though they didn't like the sleeves when they first tried it on, but now they're not sure.
It drives me nuts.
I am the type of shopper I would like to call "sensible." I wouldn't say I shop like a man, because I do like to browse. But I don't look at every single thing in the store. I can kind of take a sweeping glance and figure out which racks I want to focus on. And if I happen to overlook an item, well, it won't be the end of the world, now will it?
As I was slogging through the crowds, trying to ignore the heated debate about whether a plum or pink hoodie should be purchased, all I could think of was that I was missing my litle boy and how nice sitting on the couch and reading a book would be.
I have apparently made an effortless transition into old fogey at the tender age of thirty five.
Whatever, my feet hurt too much for me to care.
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