I hate going to shops. Generally, a trip down the high street ends with me back at home on the couch, wet towel across my forehead, swigging from a bottle of wine and responding in angry grunts to anyone that dares attempt to communicate with me. Shopping and I are just not compatible, even though I’m a woman and all cultural tropes point to “MUST LOVE SHOPPING.” But no–I’m that friend that happily takes the “boyfriend bench” next to the change rooms while her friends coo about how “cute” everything is for 3 hours, groaning all the while out of a mix of hyper-anxiety and boredom.
My shopping motto is generally this: “If you can’t get it online, then you don’t need it.” Give me my sweats, bed, laptop and credit card and I can have a whole winter wardrobe chosen and purchased within half an hour. Then I can carry on having an extremely relaxing time in complete isolation from the craziness that is shopping, while someone else worries about getting my items safely to me. With this convenience available, why would anyone ever subject themselves to the layer of hell that is comprised of stores? Here is a list of reasons why shopping is the worst, and why you’re crazy to try it.
The Brain Melting Volume and Tempo Of The Music
Have you ever been to a clothing store that isn’t playing obnoxious remixes of “We Found Love” or some unidentifiable dubstep/house/techno/Skrillex bullshit at an irrationally loud volume? In a world where the high street and the club have well and truly collided, the music-induced headache is just not worth the cute dresses. Add to that how disorientating the sound is, and you’ll walk in looking for a winter coat yet walk out with a sparkly crop top and some short shorts because you know, Ibiza, I guess.
The Terrible Lighting
What do stores have to gain from making you look like death warmed up? It can’t possibly be beneficial to have customers look at themselves in the mirror and recoil from their own reflection in disgust. Get your shit together shops–fluorescent lights make everyone look like they just dug themselves out of a shallow grave, and trendy fixtures and wall sconces create shadows that make us all look as though we were buried there for 100 years.
You know when I want to get shoved out of the way, elbowed, looked up and down and brusquely passed by as large tote bags hit me from every angle? Never, that’s when. PMS has nothing on what shopping turns women into. It’s bad enough in a regular store–where if you’re standing between a girl and something she wants, you’re essentially rendered completely invisible, and treated as such. Throw a sale into the mix and someone is really going to get hurt.
The Sales Staff
There are 3 kinds of sales staff–apathetic non-helpfuls, bitchy cunts, and overenthusiastic talkative blondes who say things like, “And if you want to mix it up, you can just belt it!” I hate all three of these sorts of people: The ones that couldn’t care less if you need another size, and look at you like if you jumped up your own ass and died right there in the change room they wouldn’t even blink an eye, make the whole experience much more difficult than it needs to be. The ones that are horrible and condescending are just terrible people and no one wants to deal with terrible people. And the ones that want to sell you EVERYTHING and tell you how GORGEOUS you look are the worst of all because they’re the ones who are most likely to convince you to buy that godawful galaxy printed mumu with the spikes on the shoulders that will make you weep in utter despair when you finally get home and realize what you’ve done.
The Sweat Monster You Become In The Overheated Change Rooms
Why is the heat turned up to eleventy billion in shops? Sure, in summer they put the aircon on, but the change rooms are their own isolated ecosystem in which, under the duress of getting changed and the interrogation room style lighting, you’ll start feeling the underside of your hair dampen and beads of sweat roll down your temples as you finally concede, fall to your knees and start screaming, “What do you want from me? I’ll tell you anything you want! Just make this senseless heat stop!”
The Energy Sucking Black Hole That Is The High Street
Show me a woman who can shop “all day” and I’ll show you a woman who is on A LOT of uppers. Going from store to store on the high street, dealing with crowds, bags, intermittent stops to change and the general stress of decision making will break you, emotionally and physically.
The Impulse Buys By The Register
I see you, store. I see what you’re doing with all those socks and lip glosses and little useless zip pouches by the register. I see what you’re doing AND I’LL TAKE EVERYTHING. I am powerless against register impulse buys, which is probably why if you shook me down for lip gloss you’d find at least 10 on my person at any given time. I also have 7 sparkly sunglasses cases (and only one pair of sunglasses) and several little boxes that are too small to fit anything in.
Leaving Empty Handed
I often panic at the register, especially when I went into the store to buy yoga pants and suddenly find myself lined up to check out with 6 t-shirts, a pair of shoes, 2 dresses and an embellished sweater. At this point, I freak out (the pervasive thought in my head being “omgomgomgomgomgomgomg”), ditch it all, and flee. Which is why I still need a new pair of yoga pants.
Or With Something Horrible
The worst case scenario however is that I don’t buy the yoga pants but I buy something totally useless that I will never wear, like “ethnic print pants” because I am in Zara, and they are everywhere, and it just seems like the right thing to do at the time. All rational thinking goes out the window when you’re caught up in the confusing, brain-frying sights and sounds of a store, a gorgeous 6′ amazon saunters past you holding a batwing top that goes with nothing in your wardrobe (also, batwing? Ew) so you abandon all hope, somehow convince yourself you can “pull it off,” do a mad dash to find the same top as her, and make the worst fashion choice of your life.
The worst part is you will just let it hang in your wardrobe for fear of having to go to the shop again to return it.