There
were coffee
grounds all over the kitchen, shards of glass on the bathroom floor, and,
racing in circles through the house, my children, mauling one other and
shouting at the tops of their lungs. It was not a good day. When my boyfriend
arrived and took in the situation, he kindly suggested that I take some time
off. He would watch the boys, I could go out and do a little shopping.
I remember looking at him with a sort of indignant horror, as if he had called
me by his ex-wife’s name during a passionate embrace. Maybe SHE would
have liked to do a little shopping. Maybe his last girlfriend spent lovely
Saturday afternoons at the mall. But how could he pretend to be my boyfriend
and not know how I feel about shopping? He may as well have suggested that I
spend the afternoon at the laundromat or the gynecologist. For to me, shopping
ranks among the most detestable chores of modern life.
I know this makes me less than a woman and less than an American, a
miscarriage of my suburban Jewish upbringing, a freak of nature. But there are
no two ways about it: I am a failure as a consumer. This is not to say that I
fail to consume. Alas, that is false to the tune of thousands of dollars per
month. But I fail to take pleasure in consumption, I fail to consume with
passion, intelligence, and style, I fail to find zest or fulfillment in the
prospect of acquiring the perfect object. In short, I hate to shop.
First of all, I do not like stores. Stores are too big. They are too
confusing. They have too many choices. Even grocery stores, especially the new
theme-park style grocery stores, fill me with a fear of being swallowed up,
never to emerge, trapped in an infinite decision loop involving 12 varieties of
tomato. And department stores, shopping malls — these I really don’t
understand. How is this a recreational activity? What is the fun part?
Wandering lost through miles of walkways? Flipping through racks and racks of
items that would probably be a great addition to your wardrobe if you had a
wardrobe to begin with? Being ignored by salespeople? Viewing your cellulite in
a three-way mirror? Waiting in line? Forgetting your packages? Or, the grand
finale, loading your purchases into the trunk, fully aware that everything you
bought will go on sale next week for half of what you paid for it?
As we all know, to pay too much for something is to be a bad person, a person
who has forsaken the bedrock American value of thrift. This person does not
clip coupons, neglects to read advertising circulars, has no patience for
comparison shopping and no subscription to Consumer Reports. She buys
her groceries at
7-Eleven, her clothes at whatever store has the most
accessible parking, her refrigerator over the telephone. When her car breaks
down irreparably on New Year’s Day, she heads out to purchase another, finding
that only a single dealership is open on the holiday. You sell cars? Great.
Could I have one?
I am a kamikaze shopper, my emotional and financial stability at risk every
time I leave the house in search of provisions, every time I descend into the
vast and terrible maw of plenty with its dazzling plate-glass teeth. And so I
say, No, dear, no thank you. I do not want to do a little shopping.
I would, however, like a double martini and a hot bubble bath.
Chronicle writer and NPR commentator Marion Winik is enjoying a little time
off during her whirlwind publicity tour for her new book, First Comes Love.
Winik appears on Oprah on Thursday, July 11.
This article appears in June 28 • 1996 and June 28 • 1996 (Cover).