I've got a problem...

Disclaimer: Photo courtesy of sodahead.com

   

Last Saturday afternoon found yours truly in a dressing room slithering her way into a white maxi dress. The maxi dress was-- as most maxi dresses are-- far too long for my five feet two inches. I stumbled out of the dressing room to show my friends, M, K and L. They gave me a look that said, put it back, but I totally ignored them, and started to rationalize why this would be a good purchase.

   Well, obviously, I could alter it. Or I could just wear heels with it. I mean, like six inches of it was dragging on the ground, but I have five inch heels that I can wear, and in that case only one inch would be left dragging. Which is totally normal. Plus, I could artfully wrap the excess material (I swear it was made for a giantess) in a knot at the bottom like that woman I once saw in a Caribbean trip advertisement.

   I launched these ideas to my friends who gave me a deadpan expression that showed they were not amused. K pointed out that I always say I'll have clothes altered, but I never get around to it. L said that if I was gonna spend 60 bucks on it, the least the dress could do was fit me properly. And did I really want to spend more money on getting it adjusted? M just shook her head at me and sighed. Then I realized I don't even wear those 5 inch heels that often. Plus, that tying your dress in a knot thing might only work for Caribbean tourists.

     So with a heavy heart, I trudged back into the dressing room, clawed my way out of the white parachute and later re-emerged to hang up the white monster back on the rack. It was then that I realized I may have a problem. Because if my friends had not been there, I might have very well bought that dress. And do you know why? Because in that dressing room, I had started deluding myself that I could indeed have that dress, and I had started formulating all these great excuses to launch on my friends as to why this dress was clearly made for me.

   I am, my friends, what they call a shopaholic.

And what is even worse, is that I'm a shopaholic cursed with good taste.Which would not be so bad, if I was Paris-freaking-Hilton, but I'm just a regular middle-class starving-on-a-university-budget Lit major. Therefore, I never have enough mula to feed my addiction. And please believe me when I say that it is an addiction. 

   I'll start deluding myself when I go into stores. Yes, I should buy that pair of shoes. After all, I'm a good person. I pay my taxes (sidenote: I don't pay taxes). I'm a good, upstanding citizen. I obey the road laws of this country (okay, I don't have a car, but believe me when I say that I am a GREAT pedestrian.)

    If these techniques don't work I start looking at the storekeeper, who looks over-eager, and I remember that we're in a recession and people aren't buying as much clothes as they used to. And I'll feel sorry for her. I remember when I was watching Confessions of a Shopaholic, the main character Rebecca once rationalized a purchase by claiming the shopkeeper had a lazy eye. I have purchased innumerable articles of clothing because I genuinely feel sorry for the bored/ disabled/ constipated/ boyfriend-is-giving-her-a-hard-time storekeeper. I'm a wuss. And it's a great way to guilt yourself into buying something.... But mainly I'm a wuss.

   Anyway, my shopping addiction has gotten so bad that I now know the names, and the lives of many shop owners. In fact, some of them have become my friends. There's V who has two children but looks like 18 although she is 30, there's R who is is straight but has suspiciously great taste in shoes, there's A who owns a boutique and whose mother is the sweetest old lady ever..... and well you get the point. 

   I've got a problem. A big problem. And it's got to stop. But I get into a store, and it just smells so good, and the clothes, the clothes literally call me. And I'm hopeless against the call. 

   And to make things even worse, friends, I work part-time in the den of all evil for a shopaholic : a mall. I don't work in a clothing store, but they're all around me. So I always end up in them. It's horrible. Horrible!

   Of course, signing up for the email newsletters of Dorothy Perkins, American Apparel, Gilt Groupe, and following a million and three fashion blogs on the web is probably not such a great idea either. But I'm going to get better guys. I'm going to overcome my addiction. And not just because I want to, but because I have to. The recession has hit this chica's wallet big time. Time to be frugal. Plus, I've said I'm going to stop shopping on my blog, and when you say that you're gonna do something online that means you gotta do it. Right?

p.s. I do take comfort in the fact that I'm not nearly as bad as that Rebecca Bloomwood though. Like I'd never have credit bills as high as those she had. Mainly because I don't trust myself with a credit card.