Little Shop of Horrors

Women and shopping have become synonymous in our society. Shopping isn’t just an idle indulgence. It’s a skill that needs to be honed and perfected. It’s fair to compare it to sport. In order to be good at shopping one needs (as with sport) a certain amount of natural talent. I’ve tried to fake it for years, but finally had to accept that I do not have the talent or the stomach for shopping.

One thing I’m very good at is making lists. It’s a skill I’ve perfected over the years to support my procrastination habit. My list-making skills really come into its own when I prepare for The Big Shop. To me, every shopping trip is as great in magnitude and packed with danger as an expedition into outer space. Careful planning is required.

I divide my shopping list into clusters, matching each item to the shop where it can be purchased. Next I calculate the quickest and most painless route through the shopping centre. Sometimes the most painless route requires that I park at one entrance and visit the surrounding shops, then return to my vehicle and drive to another entrance to visit shops on the other end of the shopping centre.

Inside the shopping mall I’m inundated with enough input to feed 25 sensory organs. Unfortunately I have only 5 sensory organs, so it all very quickly becomes too overwhelming for my fragile being.

Each shop plays a different genre of music at full volume. I’m one of those people who tend to walk to the beat of whatever music is playing. Needless to say, my body quickly turns into an uncoordinated jelly as I pass one shop after another. One moment I’m doing a MacFly stroll to the beat of some hip-hop number; next moment I’m doing my John Travolta strut (circa ‘Saturday Night Fever’) to the beat of a dance track. In-between all of this I’m dodging screeching children and shopping carts. At some point I start resembling a character from Monty Python’s ‘Ministry of Funny Walks’.

Navigating my way through the throngs of people feels a lot like driving against traffic up a busy freeway. Some people simply refuse to yield to fellow shoppers - they push their carts with white-knuckled aggression, eyes focused straight ahead and jaws clenched. Other people seem to have all the time in the world – these out-of-towners (recognizable by their neon Crocs) usually visit shopping centers in groups of 10 or more and spread their beef-and-potato bodies out evenly across the width of the passage, blocking all traffic.

Mostly I’m aware of the cloying covetousness emanating off the skins of my fellow shoppers. Their eyes dart from window to window, like malnourished children at a buffet. Drops of perspiration gather on their upper lips, as they run their clammy hands over a desired item. Every now and then a pink tongue darts out and they lick their lips in anticipation of the purchase. It’s just too much need, greed and speed all crammed together in one small space.

I’m a very disciplined shopper, not easily diverted from my shopping list. But sometimes even I fall victim to the dazzling ‘50% Sale’ posters. The last time this happened was about a year ago. I sipped a chocolate milkshake, emulating the eager anticipation of other shoppers, while ogling a pair of marked-down shoes. I stroked the leather with sweaty fingers, saliva gathering in the corners of my mouth. So lost was I in the fantasy, that I forgot to swallow properly.

Next thing I knew a gulp of milkshake went down my breathing apparatus. I choked, wheezed and spluttered. Surrounding shoppers nervously shuffled away, afraid my uncouth social behaviour might be contagious. Finally a fashionably dressed woman rushed to my side, applying her version of the Heimlich Manoeuvre (somewhere between a tickle and a fondle). Giggling under her titillating touch, the milkshake was finally dislodged.

This was a warning, a Divine message: Straying from your shopping list may lead to fatality. Now I understand what they mean with ‘Shop till you drop’.