I Hate Shopping

Neither God, nor genetics graced me with a $hopping gene – let alone a slew of them to last my lifetime. My sister on the other hand, bless her soul, has inherited not only her share of the $hopping genes, but slender legs, the Reynolds butt, and a gorgeous bubbly personality. She does not have to worry about bending over in low rise pants, whether her thighs will fit into her jeans from one weekend to the next, nor does she dread shopping. Lord, I went shopping with her once and she bought two purses – she had a BOGO coupon for Christ sakes. I didn’t even know what BOGO meant. And what woman needs more than two purses? And.oh.mi.gawd! One had fuckin’ Giraffes on it (no the Giraffes were not fucking on the purse) what in the world do you accessorize with Giraffes?

Why do I hate shopping? It is always my luck that I will need a pair of black slacks at the last moment and there won’t be a pair in town to be bought. This has led to years of frustration and a habit of online and catalogue clothes $hopping. Online or in a catalogue I can find the size I want, unless I’m shopping Spiegel’s, it will be in basic black (to match my ONE basic black purse.) I can mull over my decision for hours, days, weeks in the comfort of my own home, and if I want to order ten pairs (because basic black slacks match anything) no problem, I charge it.

Dee on the other hand is one of those gene enhanced people who can walk into TJ Max, Ross’, or Marshall’s and put together an classy ensemble for less than twenty bucks, in 15 minutes, that has you drooling in fashion lust. She is blessed I tell you, blessed. Umm, the purses were from Meyer and Franks – she is a shopping slut, thrifty, spendy, trendy stores are her friends.

I hate shopping. Whether it is shopping for clothes, shopping for cars, or shopping for groceries – I hate it. I hate the crowds, I hate the heat – because most women my age take their own heat sources along with us – I hate other shoppers. Inconsiderate, Rude, and oblivious – Americans live in their own little bubbles unaware of the world around them.

Like driving on an American roadway, shopping carts should stay to the right. Park at the curb (no double parking,) no jetting out into traffic, and do not jack knife your cart into the flow of traffic with your ass taking up the remaining room on the aisle as you count the marshmallows in the bags on the bottom shelf. Hey, it happens. Do not move your cart against the flow of traffic. Do not stop on a dime, back up, and then give the shopper behind you a look of blatant disgust for not reading your mind and KNOWING you were going to go baetso on the condiments aisle and back up with no beeper or notice. And do not stand idling in the middle of the aisle, every frickin’ aisle, talking to you next door neighbor as if you’d not seen each other since right after the earth cooled.

I hate shopping. Due to a phenomenon based on a forgotten tier of the Mayan calendar that is in accordance with the ratio genes use to calulate how much wider women will get, aisles have gotten narrower. All except the dairy and the freeze sections, those are the widest.

Today being the widest meant nothing. Women leave your husbands at home or send them alone, but do not block the entire egg case as he reads to you why he chose three, one dozen eggs cartons instead of a 36 egg crate that was on sale. TWICE. Because folks she was a bit slow, I’m sure from all the hormones in those eggs.

I hate shopping. It is a fact of me, regardless of which check out line I select shortest, longest, or in between something will happen. If you see me standing in a line, move on to the next – even if it is the longest in the store – you will get out and home far faster than me. Bookies could lay odds and clean up on the logical appearance factor alone. Because the shopping law of Cele demands that what can go wrong in a shopping line, will go wrong in the shopping line of Cele’s choice. The most reliable NCR will jam, cashiers will take breaks and the newbie of the day will ask for the code of each produce item on need to know basis. Thank Gawd I’m not a vegetarian…yet. Luckily I bag my own groceries.

The only place shopping where I feel in total harmony with the universe is in the nursery. It is like eating, my eyes are bigger than my weekend. I inevitably come out with more bedding plants than I can get into ground, planter, pot, or basket in a weekend’s time. I will spend hours feverishly digging, planting, feeding, and watering to come back the next weekend to deadhead, weed, and water in my own little nirvana. Let Ducky go to the store.