CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC

I. Need. To. Stop.

Just. Stop.

Tring tring!

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.

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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.

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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?

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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?

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