Emotional shopping = comfort food

I just lost my mind. I’m about to drop $200 online buying new clothes. You know those cute little boutique clothing ads that pop up on Facebook from time to time when you’re scrolling? They are the scourge of the earth.

It’s not the $200 that bothers me, although I’m sure the car payment is a better use of those funds. Or how about groceries? In the past, in our pre-Covid reality, shopping in thrift stores was one of my favorite outings — a form of self-love. No guilt, I was buying recycled clothes. I had a mantra, “No New Clothes,” and I lived by it.

Silly, I know.

Rarely did I ever spend over $75 shopping in a thrift store. I wore my used clothes like a badge of honor.

But life, as we know it now, is stressful. New clothes = a half-gallon of ice cream. Or an entire pizza. Or all the chocolate chip cookies in a double batch. Or ______ fill in the blank of your comfort food. Today my frugal honor is dead to me.

In lieu of ice cream, send clothes.

There are a few things going on here.

One:

I am home alone during a pandemic. Hence, I wear the same “comfy” clothes over and over and over again. “It conserves water, creates less laundry,” my brain tells me.

Not today. The thought of wearing the same-old — or any old, makes me nauseous. The left hand is shaking, holding the debit card back like a mother’s arm across the seat when she slams the brakes and attempts to save your life. The right hand has a finger on the trigger, hovering over the green button that says “Purchase.” Angel on one shoulder, devil on the other.

Thred-up could have scratched this itch, but no, I just loaded up a cart in some overseas faux-clothing company that will likely send me something thread-bare, made of shards of plastic. But it will be new! Pushing that green button will destroy my careful carbon footprint if the goods arrive at all. It would be better for the entire planet if I could just squeeze into the clothes in my closet — and be happy with that.

Two:

I survived “The Change,” and let me tell you, it was hell. I went through it early in my 40’s, and it’s not for the faint of heart. It is the opposite of being pregnant, obviously, although I’ve never had a bump in my belly, so I can’t say for sure.

I lost all appetite for everything in my closet. Cute dresses, drop-neck shirts, and pretty blouses — even the lacy underwear I loved wearing have become atrocious reminders of a body with its own mind, now on a collision course with fifteen extra pounds. And there is nothing in the free world I can do about it.

If my hormones could see me now, they might notice the middle finger I am flipping in their face. Thanks, thanks a lot. Oh, and while you’re listening, Hormones, would you mind talking to Gravity and tell him to give me a freakin’ break? He doesn’t have to be so heavy all the time.

Three:

2020. I let myself go. It’s entirely my fault. I have some catching up to do.

My ex-husband is two years older than me, and in the last couple of years, I’ve watched him reinvent himself. He shaved what was left of his hair, dyed his beard, pierced his ear, got a tattoo — then got another one.

And… drum roll… he bought a new wardrobe. He’s a new man. And his career is rocking — he’s dressed for success. I feel deep respect for this man.

It’s not easy to pick yourself up and dust yourself off after crashing from the fun, decadence of youth into the spartanic agony of middle-age. Well done, man, well done!

“Paypal or Credit Card?”

Does it matter? I mean, really. Let’s just get this over with, says the devil. I close my eyes, cross my fingers, and hope all the cute skirts, tights, and long-sleeved shirts that I’m about to blow my last cash on, fit. While I’m at it… when is someone going to figure out how to offer hair cuts online? I sorely need one, but not bad enough to brave a pandemic for it. When can I add that to the bill Paypal?

Boom!

Yes, I ordered that too. It’s a one-stick-make-your-face-glow-red-so-you-look-alive miraculous new non-makeup makeup for, shall we say, mature faces. It’s perfect for me since it’s been so damn long since I’ve worn makeup at all. I cannot for the life of me remember how to put that shit on my face without looking like a sad clown.

And why bother?

Well, there’s this new handy-dandy thing in our world now called Zoom, and I’m on that SOB five times a week. I wouldn’t mind it, except every time I talk, my face is suddenly plastered all over the screen, and I want to scream, “Oh my god, what happened?” The mirror doesn’t look like that.

They have therapy for this, I’m told.

Emotional shopping. It’s like comfort food for the ego. But who knows? If it works, and everything fits, it could be the start of a whole new me — a whole new era.

Or, if I try on the new clothes and can’t get my big toe into the tights, it could fling my delicate middle-aged ego off into outer pity-space. Everything in life is a risk. You don’t know until you try… or buy.

Stay tuned for the sequel.

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A Mid-Life Shopping Spree Cost Me $200