This week I went to a shopping center. To be precise, I have been to three malls in the last seven days. Prior to this week, I have not gone to anything remotely resembling a shopping center since the start of the pandemic. Reentry into retail is a lot like being a couch potato for the last year and a half and then signing up for a daily CrossFit program, which you go to after running for 45 minutes. It is grueling. But with upcoming out-of-town travel, I had hostess presents to buy and a decrepit wardrobe that needed refreshing.
Last weekend, I ventured out to a familiar local mall, one that I have gone to countless times in the last three decades. Things were going smoothly; I had a list of stores to go to and I had remembered to bring a small mountain of gift cards. Then I somehow missed the highway turnoff and spent an extra fifteen minutes getting to the parking lot.
I passed the time people watching as I cruised around with feigned confidence that I knew where to park. There were throngs of shoppers downtown, every one of whom had at least one bag or parcel. And, I was startled to observe, they are all wearing shorts – like what we used to call short shorts. I assumed that this was a millennial dress code mandate until I saw a snazzy, middled-aged woman in a knit shirt and short, floral shorts. You go girl, I thought.
I headed into one of my favorite department stores and checked the directory for the Petite section, but there was none. Apparently petite women are now extinct. Or maybe their purchasing power is so diminished that they are no longer recognized by retailers. Everything that I tried on was either too big or too youthful. To be clear, I am not horrified by the look of my stomach, but on the other hand, I am not going to display it by wearing a crop top. I consoled myself that I could still purchase shoes, but my two trustworthy shoe stores had disappeared, victims of shoppers’ dwindling affection for brick-and-mortar spending.
I returned home after three hours with exactly zero purchases.
The next day I went to a big box, general merchandise store known for inexpensive prices. I returned home triumphantly with two t-shirts (each costing $6.00) and a pair of blue jeans that
cost less than a good bottle of wine. Plus, I picked up some laundry detergent and paper towels. It was a good day.
Friday night was the toughest challenge: after a long and demanding day at the office, I drove to the largest mall in Washington state. I was terrified by the traffic enroute. Drivers were whizzing around me either to get home quickly or because they were determined to get the last spot in the lot -- I did not know which. After successfully parking my car in an extraordinarily inconvenient space, I headed into the mall.
I located my chosen shoe shop in the directory, but it had either changed locations, or I am the worst map reader in the world. (My husband would tell you it is the latter.) As a result, I spent almost half an hour getting to it. I was tired and frustrated. I vowed never to go to that store again, which made the decision to buy two pairs of shoes instead of one entirely logical.
I passed by a Nike outlet on the way back to my car. I can usually find athletic clothes that fit; though the sleeves are always too long, I pretend that rolled-up sleeves look cool. To my dismay, everything was either too large, too long, or was a crop top. On a whim, I browsed the kids’ section of the store, and voila! I am apparently the exact size of a large child. I snagged a running shirt for $12.50 and a hooded windbreaker for $24.99. (Virtually identical items in women’s sizes were three times the price.) Note to self: one advantage to being small versus 271 disadvantages.
I am relieved to be done shopping. The process was not agonizing, but it was not fun. I do not know where the term “retail therapy” originated from; it is a misnomer. I suspect it is a brilliant marketing ploy of merchandisers. For me, clothes shopping is large part torment and small part necessity. I will need counseling before I attempt it again.