Cirrus Cloud on Shop: Junk and Junkies

I checked into a "clinic" last weekend for five hours. It is one of the best in Manhattan. It never fails to soothe me, make me feel pretty and make me feel good all over, at least for a bit. Then it makes me feel guilty and broke.

The "clinic" in question - Saks Fifth Avenue.

Retail therapy is such an overused and abused term. Women love it; men loathe it. Women squeal with each purchase; men feel their credit card melt with each swipe.


Shopping!

In Singapore, shopping for clothes is much easier as it is summer all year round. I have lived in Singapore for most of my life and do not have enough winter clothes now that I live in New York.


Snow storm in New York winter 2009/10

So I told my dear husband that I needed more clothes. He stared at me and said innocently, “Our walk-in closet and the two others in the adjoining room are already filled with your clothes.”

I glared back at him and muttered, “I do not have enough winter wear.”


Frozen tree in Central Park

And so I managed to drag him to my favorite clinic. He was tasked to be my retail version of a wingman and to give me comments about each piece of garment.

Being a woman is not simple. We are complex creatures to begin with, and when we shop, we make truly important, mind-blowing decisions. Men should be more patient with us if we cannot decide between smoky-grey and charcoal-grey, or salmon-pink and rusty-pink. We always strive to dress the best for them. They should be constantly reminded: You are the main reason why we dress up (clears throat).

For starters, we looked at mink coats. I have been trying to envision myself in fur for a while now but I still cannot get used to the thought of wearing an animal on me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to play animal activist and I do wear leather. Just not fur. The image of the whole animal on me is just not alluring. To convince myself otherwise, I decided to try some on.

The first coat made me look like Sesame Street's Big Bird. The only thing different was the color but I still felt like a bird. A clumsy bird.



The second coat made me feel 50 years old. Perhaps it is the connotation that most older woman wear fur. It is no doubt that a fur coat looks luxurious and expensive but somehow, I felt my youth dissipate in it.

The third coat, by then, would simply hang in its glorious mane, on the rack.

We ventured into the "Young Ladies Fashion” department. I had a smirk on my face but was feeling apprehensive at the same time. I do not consider myself old, but not that young either. I consoled myself by incessantly chanting, “30s is the new 20s” in my head.

We immediately stumbled upon a sleeveless fire-engine-red shift dress. On closer inspection, the dress was made up of hearts sewn together. I decided to try it on for the fun of it. I never thought that I was going to buy it as I always thought that hearts look too girly for my persona. The only size left was a US 2, which translates to extra-small. My husband and I laughed out loud but he convinced me to put my definitely-larger-than-extra-small body into the dress.


THE red dress

Voilà. It fitted well. Shocking! I had to buy the dress. I do not own a size 2 in my closet. I needed to buy this dress then, if not the day before. No debate, no questions, no nothing. Just a yes to size 2. I felt super slim when I walked out of the shop with the dress in hand. The sales person was shocked to find out that I am in my thirties. Ooh, I love cheap thrills. Even if she had lied through her teeth.

In New York, it is common knowledge that a woman cannot wear mini-skirts past the age of 35. I have to wear them now before the societal expiration date. With a vengeance, I swept two mini skirts into my shopping bag. With another swoop, the bag was laden with two skinny tops. Now, anxious of the fact that I have gathered only summer clothes so far, I started hunting high and low for winter clothes, before my husband could make any murmur. I took a thick black cardigan with simple details and used it to cover the summer clothes in the bag.


The mini-skirt which I haven't had the courage to wear...yet.

No comment from the man? Phew. The coast was clear. I could sense his weariness and suggested tea. Between tea and stretching our legs, it occurred to me that shopping is like a drug; it is addictive. The more you get, the more you want. The point of satiation is incomprehensible. After you get hit, you always come back for more, and it certainly brings you highs and lows.

I suddenly felt like a junkie. I am sure there is a retail version of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) in Manhattan for rehabilitation and I was worried that label would get stuck on me.

Instead of shopping for more, I told my husband I wanted to go home. He agreed and said, ”OK, tomorrow we will carry on shopping for proper winter clothes.”

Oops. And I thought he hadn’t noticed.



Some pictures taken off the internet.