Author: Emma Sajic
14th March 2001
Why I hate shopping . . .
Many
men seem to assume that the reason women go shopping so often is that they like
it. When a girl insists that her boyfriend should come with her on a shopping
trip his heart sinks as he envisages the prospect of waiting for hours outside
women's changing rooms in all the major clothes shops, while she tries on
outfit after outfit. For him this is utter boredom and he can't think of
anything he would rather do less. Men are logical creatures. If a man didn't
enjoy something he wouldn't spend a lot of time doing it. So he concludes that
a whole day going round the shops must be fun for women in some way that he
can't understand. This logic has come to dominate many people's attitudes about
women and shopping. But I have a confession to make: I hate shopping!
I hate the prospect of getting on the bus at 10 a.m. knowing that I have to find the perfect interview outfit because the interview is tomorrow, and that there are only three shops that will stock anything remotely suitable. One shop will be for people twenty times thinner than me, one will be for people twenty years older than me, and one will be for people twenty times richer than me.
I
hate the ordeal of combing through the whole shop desperately trying to find a
pair of trousers in my size. And queueing for ages to take them to a cramped,
harshly lit changing room, only to find that the size on the label bears no
relation to the size of my body. Then I have to poke my head round the changing
room door, concealing half my body with the curtain and hoping that the
assistant doesn't see how ridiculous the trousers look on me, and demand a
different size. The assistant takes half an hour to bring the size and in the
meantime my boyfriend is standing outside the changing room door looking more
bored and stressed than the occupants of a three-hours-delayed Virgin train.
I hate the process of trudging into shop after shop trying
to compare each shop's outfit with the one before because I might see something
better in the next shop and it's not wise to buy anything till I've been
everywhere. Then by the time I've been to every shop and made a decision it's
twenty-five past five and the shops are just about to shut. I have to dash like
Speedy Gonzales down the High Street in the hope that I'll catch the shop of
choice just before they lock the metal grille down over the door.
On the surface, shopping is a form of female masochism. I pay Topshop, New Look and Next to cram into their changing rooms and use their angst-provoking mirrors! I reward them for this punitive experience by buying their clothes! No wonder men think girls are crazy. But maybe there's something they don't realize. No, I don't go shopping because I like it. I go because I've got no choice.