It is a well-established fact that I hate shopping, even more than I hate reality shows in which by season’s end contestants are coated in a thin layer of silt and human oil. I don’t enjoy the fact that it’s always 90 degrees in any given department store, that the restrooms are hidden in some lounge area right behind the gift wrapping on a half floor. I don’t enjoy the people who have clearly never been in a common shopping area before, or quite possibly out in public, those who stop repeatedly in the middle of pedestrian travel lanes while texting or sharing a cinnamon Auntie Anne’s with grandma. I get in; I get out. In a dazzling display of compulsivity, I’ll occasionally plot my course in advance with the assistance of an online mall map and an extra hour of sleep. I do not mess around.
So it shocks not only you that I’ve had a recurring dream lately about living in a mall. Four, five, six times? It’s a tale told not in cold sweats, but comforting fairy tale precision. A story of living in its bowels, in its depths, in the parts smelling like a rail cocktail of bleach and burnt popcorn. It’s strangely appealing, like having an affair, the allure of going undiscovered and living off of unlimited fountain soda in the food court. No fro yo, because as you quickly learn they clean the machines long before the day is done, but plenty of groomed room to spread your arms while singing show tunes. It’s like summer camp, only with your period.
In the dream, I have free reign. I run the halls; I shop taffeta and cashmere at full discount. I hang clothes on an ancient radiator that fails to radiate, arms and neck smelling entirely of almond soap only meant for hands. I’m free and complete and without worry about cat food and the ridiculous total of the week’s dry cleaning, not to mention the utter frustration of an order of one dozen cottons pressed without starch. In my dream there is no cell phone, no laptop, no George Foreman Grill with which to ruin perfectly viable chicken breasts.
It’s simplicity, a life complete and free of accountability. And Twitter and StatCounter. And three-inch heels only worn for show. And TiVo, Whole Foods, the Blackberry, and hostile 2 pm meetings. It’s life without the extras, the fringe.
Then again, it’s also life without love and friendship, unless you count random encounters with Old Navy staff. It’s the complete absence of freshly grated cheese or wasabi. And the nestling of a companion on your chest, whether purring or drooling. It’s very Dawson’s Creek: Minneapolis, but like midwestern charm it has its limits. It’s somehow freeing to go without these emotional staples for a while, but it’s a state best kept in dreams. Even if in dreams you’ve got much better bedding.
22 Comments
Send me your list: I’ll be your personal shopper.
Have I told you lately that I love the way your mind works? I do. Totally and completely in a way that makes me a little nervous, actually.
It IS always 90 degrees in there. Day before yesterday I almost dehydrated in Pottery Barn. Good thing they have all those giant puffy chairs around for me to sit in and cry.
Also those security guards, they’re really on top of their shit.
Kind of like that guy who lived in Ikea. Only you had way more selection.
“It’s like summer camp, only with your period.”
I’m considering this sentence my Christmas present. Thank you – it was just what I wanted!
Awesome post.
Peace,
A
what great writing!
I have procrastinated enough with my xmas shopping… that I have to venture out into the retail wilderness tomorrow on the SATURDAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS.
Kill me.
I’ve found you again :) Happy Holiday, Dahling!
Interesting. I’ve never had a re-curring dream. I don’t like shopping, I do like buying.
It’s not so much that I hate shopping, I just hate Christmas shopping. Too much arsewipery, too many Christmas Carols. And quite frankly, bah humbug.
I dream of having to make it to college classes in a mall. like mall of the americas kind of mall. i’m always searching but never seem to make it to my stats class located in Dillards.
Should you happen to have that dream again tonight…can you pick me up a couple things? I promise to pay you back!
Thanks so much…
Shopping malls and the entire experience of being washed in the same sweat-stained air as our fellow humans is simply a modern form of subversive torture; we just haven’t figured it out yet.
i used to work at gymboree and would have recurring dreams where it would be closing time and we’d try and pull the gates down but had to leave them partially up so folks in the store could still get out – only people would keep coming in and we couldn’t get them to stop. hated that dream.
also dreamt about lions chasing me when i was a kid – i’d always get through my front door and slam it shut as the lion jumped up on it.
i think i may need therapy.
Why do they keep it so freakin’ ovenlike in department stores? I have enough hot flashes all on my own, thank you, I don’t need any help!
I went shopping with Whoorl yesterday and we discussed our mutual disdain for other shoppers. Despite my love of things, I love to get in and get out and celebrate my purchase. AT HOME.
Enjoyed this, though am scared of your mall-dwelling dreams! I feel your pain in the over-heated mall: I very nearly died of heat stroke in a Coldwater Creek (NOT SHOPPING FOR MYSELF) on Saturday. Seriously, I cheated death and sweated like no person should ever sweat without exercise.
I’m always happy to find a fellow non-shopper like myself. Most of the stuff I’ve bought for myself recently has been off the internet. I hate crowds…
This is my first visit to your site, and it will not be the last. You are a fantastic writer and this is the best blog post I have read anywhere in over a year. Thank you (which sounds awkward, I completely understand, but it is a gem amidst the general sludge of the blogging world). Happy Holidays.
I almost passed out trying on bra’s in Dillards on Friday. (IE: I was nakked from the waist up and still sweating like a hog)
I love your writing. Have a super de duper holiday.
Thank God there is someone else who hates shopping. I sweat to death in the dressing rooms and want to kick everyone in my path. I was beginning to think I was some sort of freak.