It’s another sweltering summer day in the city of New York. I worked all day— assessing various new designer collections, as well as making equally as enticing Excel spreadsheets, staring at an iMac, doing what I love. I travel home at rush hour via the subway, cramped between thousands of other New Yorkers in polyester work attire are that insults a day as hot as this. I stumble home. Exhausted, sweating, and in need of a cheery pick-me-up, nothing tickles my fancy more than a fashion movie. Having seen practically every fashion movie there is to see; from documentary to comedy to historical re-make, it takes me by surprise that this Wednesday night, I happen upon one I seem to have forgotten— ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic.’ I haven’t seen the movie in years. I am delighted at the thought of re-watching it.
Throughout the film, Rebecca, the protagonist, is faced with insurmountable debt due to her shopping addiction. She loves the thrill of swiping her credit card and taking home a new designer piece. We see how this debt ruins her career and her romantic relationships. Rebecca later comes to terms with her shopping addiction, goes to “Shopaholics Anonymous,” and gets her financial and love life back on track. All is well, at least for Rebecca. By the end of the movie, all I can think about is the (never) cheap thrill of an “order placed” screen on my previous iMac. Pretty much the opposite of what the targeted viewer is supposed to feel after watching the movie. And yes, I love designer fashion. But I am not a Rebecca. I am worse. I am a returner.
Now, hear me out. I LOVE CLOTHES, but I love shopping more. The thought of a new outfit, accessory, or bag thrills me as much as the next fashion student, but I love nothing more than the shopping experience. Becoming friends with the sales associate, having an entire fashion show in the dressing room, being offered champagne without having to flash my poorly printed fake ID. I get so involved in the shopping experience that I feel like it is my civic duty to buy something. God made credit cards for a reason, right? So as a courtesy, I always buy something. I live for the drama of walking around with a giant designer shopping bag— and you don’t get the bag without swiping the card. Trust me. I’ve tried.
Then, approximately 5 minutes later, right on schedule, I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach. What have I done? How much have I spent? What will I wear this with? I think about turning back and just returning it now, but I always decide against it out of sheer pride. I also don’t want to give up my designer-shopping-bag-on-the-streets-of-New-York fantasy yet. I always go home and layout my purchases. I stare perplexed at my choices, confused about what I just paid a ridiculous amount of money for. Then, I begin my returning plan, picking and choosing what has to go back and what can make a home with me. Usually, I am left all alone.
When I go in to return, I don’t just say, “Yeah. I just didn’t love it”. That’s too easy! I, of course, have to create a story of why I am returning this. “Oh, the color looked different when I got home.” “It just fit weird when I tried it on again.” And my personal favorite “I realized I had something just like it when I got home.” I feel the need to make an excuse. The sales associate probably knows it is not true. They can read me like a book. Once I leave the store, with stacks of paper receipts. I feel a sense of relief, but a bit of sadness, thinking that the shirt I just returned could be the one that got away.
I have thought about changing my buying habits, but I enjoy shopping too much. At the end of the day, the shopping experience wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t buy anything. Sorry to all the sales associates I’ve given and respectively taken commissions from. I promise I won’t return anything next time (probably).
Words by Tommy Drennan
Graphic by Emily Monet