I dumped my work stuff in my house and rushed out. I walked steadily towards the venue, my hair escaping from the bun. I rushed through smoke and dust; my platform slippers flipped wet mud droplets on my legs. I did not bother. I was late already. A weekend had just got over. Here I was, waking up on a Tuesday to start the mission.
Still, I was confident I will pull it off. I am an old player in this game, after all.
I reached, panting and sweaty, all the perfume mostly faded (whatever strain I may be in, time / money, looking and dressing good can never be compromised on. I feel). I ran up the stairs, entered the sliding doors and sighed noisily. I smiled at the mannequins, startling the poor guard. I devoured the smells of the place. I’m here, finally, I thought.
Shopping! The mall! Nothing makes me happier.
I went on a clothes-picking frenzy pushing little girls and fat ladies aside in the process. I have a mission to accomplish; I glared at them haughtily. So what if I have enough clothes to clothe half of the city, I still deserve better things in life. After all the anguish and suffering I go through being a single working girl, don’t I deserve some, at least little reward? I picked that shirt with the cute colour and I also picked that top with the jazzy buttons. So what if I didn’t like the shirt’s cloth or the top’s colour. You can’t get everything, you know.
Shopping being such a wonderful therapy that cures so many problems faced by ladies log, I hate when it causes pain. The pain of having to choose just one pair of jeans. Or just one scarf, and keep back all those trendy pieces you picked up. So I just pick them all. What if I find someone else wearing a similar piece some day? How will I console my poor heart? How will I compensate my deprived heart?
I beat girls to trial rooms. I studied the pieces on shelves and hoarded them on my arm like they were groceries till my arm felt senseless. I rummaged through racks, much to the salesgirl’s distress and picked out every item of my size (and a size lower and higher) and dragged them into the tiny trial room.
‘Size S in this? And longer shorts like these?’ I rattled off queries enthusiastically to the salesgirl.
‘No’, the grumpy salesgirl replied coldly and scuttled away.
How mean!
‘Hmph’ I frowned. ‘Poor thing. Must be really frustrated about something. Pity.’
My shopaholic aura must have been spotted by the salesgirls by the jewellery counter. I looked through the racks importantly while those girls hung around me like bees. I shoved a few items into a girl’s hands, asking her to hold them for me and flung orders at her. The girl looked gobsmacked. I ignored. I was on a roll and no one could come in my way. I picked up more items to try and moved towards the trial rooms leaving her looking lost holding the accessories basket in her hand. It is always like this when I shop. Salesgirls just become my
personal assistants for some time.
personal assistants for some time.
After I was convinced that I had left nothing untried, I made my way to the counter (and made another trip to the trial room because I saw something on the way). My smug expression was wiped off for a moment when the bill amount was displayed. What the hell is with inflation?! But well, I wanted it, I bought it.
I walked out of the mall a little shaken. I passed my neighbourhood boutique and bowed my head. Enough (for today).
I wonder what Daddy Dearest, who keeps a tab on my bank account activities, will say and when.
Is this how you shop too? How do you shop?
