It's Not for Sale

I wanted to go to the mall today. I've been cooped up in the house for more than a week. My consumer confidence was feeling really healthy and I felt it was my patriotic duty to boost the economy by spending money. We got down the drive way without much trouble, then got stuck in the road. And I mean stuck. Not going anywhere. The road was a mess of slush with ice underneath and that car wasn't moving. Another car finally came up the road towards us and stopped. The driver helpfully got out to push and we got back into the driveway. No mall for me today. My husband didn't mind. He shops on line, but I hate to shop on line. I like to see things and touch them before I buy them.

What was I wanting to buy? Well, maybe some new underwear. I'm going on a trip in March and I need more underwear that actually fits me. Or maybe a pair of boots because I don't have any. Or maybe just a latte at Starbucks (skim, of course) or a new sweater. My urge to shop is sometimes stronger even than my urge to eat. It's one thing to not be able to get out to the office, but to not be able to get to the mall, now that pisses me off. I would pay more taxes for more snow plows. I really would.

So I vacuumed the rugs and did my 2 miles on the treadmill.

Maybe I'll check out the Victoria's Secret website.

The following poem was written by a Seattle doctor and writer. The title, Oniomania, is a word for compulsive shopping.

Oniomania

Not so much the desire
for owning things
as the inability to choose
between hunter or emerald
green, to buy
just roses, when there are birds
of paradise, dahlias,
delphinium, and baby's breath.
At center an emptiness
large as a half-off sale table.
What could be so wrong
with a little indulgence?
To wander the aisles of fresh
new good things knowing
any of them could be hers?
With a closet full of shoes
unworn back home,
she's looking for love
but it's not for sale —
so she grabs three of
the next best thing.

By Peter Pereira