My Shopping Addiction
I think I have developed a new addiction.
This should not surprise me. I come from an addictive family. My father enjoyed alcohol and cigarettes far more than either enjoyed him, and my mother’s addiction was making money. As for me...
Dairy Queen dipped cones ranked high on my list for years, and I once ran six miles a day, six days a week, because apparently my body required movement the way some people require caffeine.
Eventually my knees and hips staged a rebellion and informed me that running was no longer part of the plan. What I failed to realize was that addictions leave vacancies. Something always seems eager to move into the empty space.
Recently, I discovered that my replacement addiction appears to be shopping. Not shopping for things I need. Shopping for things I might need. Or could need. Or once needed in 1987 and might someday need again. Stores, unfortunately, are more than willing to support this behavior.
Why else would Amazon offer thousands of varieties of shoelaces? I can spend an embarrassing amount of time browsing lengths, widths, colors, materials, and lacing systems. Who knew there were so many options available to secure footwear to one’s feet?
The rush comes not only from finding the perfect item, but from knowing it can appear at my front door within hours. Groceries arrive more quickly. I can order instant rice from a store three blocks away and have it handed to me in less than twenty minutes. It is miraculous. It is convenient. It is dangerous.
I’d like to blame this new obsession on age, but that may simply be an excuse. The truth is shopping fills something. Maybe loneliness. Maybe boredom. Maybe the vague feeling that something is missing and can surely be solved by purchasing a decorative flowerpot.
One minute I’m looking at flowers. The next minute I’m comparing planters. Then I’m reading reviews about potting soil written by people who appear to have devoted their lives to begonias.
Recently, I hit bottom. At two o’clock in the morning I found myself studying photographs of shoelaces. Not shoes. Shoelaces. I was comparing 43-inch versus 55-inch lengths, debating green, black, or pink, and carefully evaluating the merits of semi-flat versus rounded styles.
My gosh. There is something fundamentally wrong with a person who invests this much time, energy, and money into shoelaces. I kept trying to justify the decision.
“It depends on the shoes.” “It depends on the pants.” “It depends on how I feel that day.” Good grief. Just click black and be done with it.