I. Need. To. Stop.
The taxi driver’s here. He’ll charge extra if I make him wait. I need to take a decision. Fast.
Oh, wow. You’re about to spend a bomb on clothes you don’t need and you’re worried about the extra ten bucks the driver might charge you. You stupid . . .
‘Enough! I can’t take your abuse anymore. I’m super stressed as it is. I said I wouldn’t buy anything. Why are you fussing?’
Because I know that when you say you won’t buy anything, you will most likely return with an empty wallet and zero bank balance.
‘Sniff, sniff! You will never understand me.’
I tore myself away from the place and hopped into the waiting cab, ready for my next shopping trip after a long gap of four days.
‘They said sale! How can I ignore that?’ I whined.
The driver looked at me suspiciously. He probably wondered who I was talking to. Of course, he wouldn’t have guessed that my mind was torturing me with its hostile libels.
I had to pause the introspection but my merciless Mind kept going on with its taunts.
You’re such a dumbo, always on the prowl for new clothes as if that’s all people care about.
My eyes prickled with tears.
That’s right. Cry. Later you’ll cry because of poverty. Wait, I just came up with a tagline for you.
She’s just a bimbo
Who waits for sales on Crimbo
Strutting with her limbs akimbo.
‘Sniff, sniff, I hate you.’
‘Sorry, ma’am?’ the taxi driver spun around to look at me despite the traffic.
‘Queue,’ I lied, ‘I hate queue. You know, the traffic. Jam.’
‘I too hate traffic, madam. It’s so irritating. One day when I was . . .’
I wanted to jump out of the running car because the driver’s irrelevant anecdotes and Mind’s brutal bashings began to take their toll on my mental health. I was filled with a sense of despair. It lasted for about twenty minutes until the car halted near the mall gate.
There! With its palatial structure standing in all its imposing glory like a majestic castle, welcoming me with jumbo banners advertising huge discounts on all items, I saw imaginary hands stretch out of the cornucopia, enticing me to enter and precluding me from leaving.
Okay, I have never considered myself a shopaholic. Until recently. When I realized that my closet looked like a vacuum storage bag—all clothes, no air.
And worse, I discovered that I needed more space (like a whole new house for my commodities) to accommodate the truckload of shopping bags waiting to be emptied, in the other room.
Oh, what have I become?!
It’s not like money grows on trees for me. I think twice before buying a freaking avocado for crying out loud. Why can’t I resist the urge to buy a stupid cold-shoulder dress that fits me so nicely and looks so good that even motorists turn their heads to see who the beautiful girl in black is . . .
Oh, God there I go again. Falling for the charms of clothes.
But girls, let’s be honest. Is there anything in this world that makes us as happy as a gorgeous dress does? Or an elegant pair of pumps? Paired with a designer sling bag? Along with chandelier earrings?
Damn, I’m doing it again.
Anyway, what the world (and parents) don’t understand is shopping is like therapy. It rejuvenates us. But it also burns a hole the size of a Grand Big Mac in our pockets. Who cares though? All we need for a contented life is a gigantic wardrobe full of clothes . . . and maybe matching accessories. It doesn’t matter if we are wasting away the hard-earned money of our parents or spouses . . . or ours, right? Right?