Technoshopping
A friend of mine just sent me an email that made me think of how "old" I am starting to feel. She was talking about shopping and how upon entering a store with music blasting she knew there would be nothing in it for her to buy. She was speaking my language.
I was recently at Bloomingdales, looking for a pair of sexy, hot jeans... I wanted the perfect pair. Ones that would make my butt look "juicy" (as my husband likes to say), my legs long and slender and still be comfortable enough to breathe in. Well, in the jeans department, there was a real live DJ, pumping his beats for all the shoppers (also known as rich teenagers) to hear. I tried for about five minutes to bop around the racks, letting the music inspire me to shop, but I couldn't take it. I threw down the pile of jeans I had selected in utter frustration and left the store, never to return again. For, I do not belong.
Maybe that is why Mom's end up wearing "Mom Jeans" in the first place. All the cool jeans are surrounded by techno beats that make them start desperately dumping their purses in search of a Xanax to calm their nerves. I have to shop at places like Banana and the Gap... where alternative music co-mingles with jazz and makes the experience a peaceful one (only if there are fewer than 10 people also shopping when I am, of course... I don't do well with crowds).
In all honesty, I would do great with a personal shopper. She can go out and get me nice things, I will try them on and then she can go and return whatever doesn't work. I hate shopping, I hate trying on clothes, I hate dressing room mirrors, I hate returning clothes that I bought on impulse. My patience wears thin about a half an hour into it, and in New York, that is not enough time to even make your way over to the sales rack. The vultures have already swooped in and claimed their spot, searching item by item until they find the best deal out there in their size. My personal shopper would be aggressive. She would throw shoulders to get that peasant dress that has been reduced 80% because she works for me and loves me and doesn't want me to ever resort to wearing mom jeans.
I was recently at Bloomingdales, looking for a pair of sexy, hot jeans... I wanted the perfect pair. Ones that would make my butt look "juicy" (as my husband likes to say), my legs long and slender and still be comfortable enough to breathe in. Well, in the jeans department, there was a real live DJ, pumping his beats for all the shoppers (also known as rich teenagers) to hear. I tried for about five minutes to bop around the racks, letting the music inspire me to shop, but I couldn't take it. I threw down the pile of jeans I had selected in utter frustration and left the store, never to return again. For, I do not belong.
Maybe that is why Mom's end up wearing "Mom Jeans" in the first place. All the cool jeans are surrounded by techno beats that make them start desperately dumping their purses in search of a Xanax to calm their nerves. I have to shop at places like Banana and the Gap... where alternative music co-mingles with jazz and makes the experience a peaceful one (only if there are fewer than 10 people also shopping when I am, of course... I don't do well with crowds).
In all honesty, I would do great with a personal shopper. She can go out and get me nice things, I will try them on and then she can go and return whatever doesn't work. I hate shopping, I hate trying on clothes, I hate dressing room mirrors, I hate returning clothes that I bought on impulse. My patience wears thin about a half an hour into it, and in New York, that is not enough time to even make your way over to the sales rack. The vultures have already swooped in and claimed their spot, searching item by item until they find the best deal out there in their size. My personal shopper would be aggressive. She would throw shoulders to get that peasant dress that has been reduced 80% because she works for me and loves me and doesn't want me to ever resort to wearing mom jeans.
posted by Tracy at 1:19 PM
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