Shopping = Death

I am not a good shopper. I would rather wear raggedy old clothes that are falling off my body than shop for new ones. I have never liked to shop.

When I was a little girl Dolly, my energetic mother, would drag me along on all-day shopping excursions. My 5-year-old patience quickly hit the wall and I sought diversion, hiding under clothing racks, crawling quickly on my hands and knees across the hardwood floor to the outer boundaries of womens' clothing.

Social butterfly Dolly, disarmingly beautiful, searched for the perfect explosive mix of sexy and sophisticated in her next Charity Ball formal gown. She shimmied the umpteenth red satin, black velvet, strapless, low cut or tight-waisted dress over her perfectly proportioned hips as I sat admiring her from the littered floor of the dressing room, surrounded by mirrors, a dirty little girl with cobwebs in her disheveled hair.

Dolly wore fire engine red lipstick which I occasionally, while sitting on the bathroom sink, liked to apply thickly to my cheeks like warpaint. But Dolly always made sure to plant some on my face with her lips, marking her territory, staking claim to her little possession.

Later in the day, weary of the smell of fabric, the unfriendly fluorescent lights, the tireless walking in pursuit of fashion, I angrily hid under circular racks of skirts, hunkered down, scowling.

Then I would hear Dolly's loud voice coming from the bright world above me like an angel of guilt, saying, "Well, I guess we will just have to LEAVE her here. She'll have to find her OWN way home," and I would scurry out to face her mix of disapproval and love. She cajoled, held me, made me smile somehow, planted a kiss on my cheek and we were off, bags in hand, to the next store.

My hatred of shopping evolved naturally into hatred of fashion and all that it represented. Photographs of my prim sisters sitting nicely in their ruffled holiday dresses are forever colored by my inability to sit still. I am always reaching for something off-camera with my underpants showing because I just wasn't good at wearing dresses and didn't get the important concept of having to stop life to smile and pose like a "perfect family". And Dolly's attempts to dress me in "cute" clothing (like a "wonderful" hand-me-down faux-fur winter coat of Georgia's) brought stamping of feet and cries of protest. "I hate that damn coat! I have NEVER liked mink!" My mother's horror at my father's vocabulary pouring angrily from my 5-year-old lips quickly turned to muffled laughter as I held my ground.

I won that battle. I didn't ever wear that coat, and I still hate pretentious damn fur coats.

And fashion is still a bloody battle. Since my favorite article of clothing, a Banana Republic gray lambswool sweater (that I purchased for $1.75 at Goodwill, loved and wore constantly) went through the washer and dryer and now would fit only a 5-year-old, I am desperate. I must go shopping. Wish me luck.