I used to be an excellent shopper back in the day … and I mean like ‘world class’ excellent. I could pound the pavement all day long.
I knew exactly where to go and who had what. I could spend an hour in the change room without flinching (or needing to pee) and be ready to back up the next day to revisit multiple items I’d put on hold.
Fast-forward 20 years and the picture looks a little different.
Nowadays, shopping expeditions have a strict time limit in place and some non-negotiable terms and conditions that make it about as fun as sand in your undies.
Then there’s the sensory overload thing. Loud, in-store music that would be more appropriate in a night-club or has no words, serves as confirmation that I am not the target demographic. If I have shoes older than the shop assistant … abort mission immediately.
If there are a million racks crammed with garments in no apparent order, my “I can’t give a shit-o-meter” moves into overdrive.
I have literally turned into the Grinch of shopping. I also detest being hassled by well meaning sales people. FYI … If you don’t have the top in black please just say so. Under no circumstances do I want to try it on in yellow. Nor do I require your positive affirmations when my butt resembles Queenie The Elephant attempting to squeeze into your fabulously popular skinny jeans. In fact, the whole notion of fashion in one’s late forties is fraught with danger.
It’s like balancing on that fine ‘age appropriate’ line. One false move to the right and you’re drowning in the murky waters of frumpsville. One step to the left and you’ll be featured on the homepage of www.tragic.com.
If resembling mutton dressed up as lamb is what we’re all desperately trying to avoid, then the alternative must be mutton dressed up as mutton … FYI … neither option is good.