Just a few days ago, I saw a commercial on TV – I believe it was a furniture commercial – where they compiled all of the common sounds of a furniture store to make a melody of sorts. The combination of recliners flipping open, customers exuding periodical “ahhhhh”s and the squish of leather as someone took a seat made for quite the tune. All the while I was thinking of the sounds that, put together, make a calm, soothing reverie in my head. I call that song “Retail Therapy”.
Close your eyes and imagine, if you will, the clicking of heels on a tiled mall floor. The sliding of clothes hangers across a metal bar. The “beep” of the laser gun as it scans barcode after barcode. The sliding of plastic against plastic at the credit card machine. The rustle of plastic bags or the rigid sound of paper ones. The slurping of the last bit of an iced vanilla latte that is a routine, custom shopping buddy. Ahhhhhhh………..
If I were to hear these sounds while shopping with friends, children at home with their Daddy – then my “Retail Therapy” song would be similar to the final movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony.
If the kids are with me – or their Daddy for that matter – then my song may sound a little more like “Flight of the Bumblebee.”
Either way – it’s my favorite song.
Growing up, I was more excited about frequenting a thrift store or WalMart. After all, shopping at the mall or at a specialty store required money. And I had it in my head that if you spent more than $20 for a new pair of shoes, then you were considered high-maintenance. And back then I thought that was a bad thing.
I’ve grown up a lot since then.
I still don’t consider myself high-maintenance. I like to think of it as blah-challenged.
I’ve upgraded from CoverGirl to Maybelline to Clinique. And am thinking of a move to Bare Minerals. Though a little pricey, the flawless coverage I seriously covet. Gone are Faded Glory. Hello, Lane Bryant, Ann Taylor and Ashley Stewart.
No-name handbags are being replaced by Guess, Coach and, hopefully, that D&G that I’ve been eyeing for a couple of weeks now. Good God, that thing is gorgeous.
And Clairol hasn’t touched my hair in a decade now. (My BFF and I used to raid the hair dye aisle of our local Wally World on a monthly, at times weekly, basis.) No, no. Not anymore. Nelle, my hairdresser, now applies an array of Sexy Hair products to bring out my natural olive complexion. (Say that out loud with your best French accent, it sounds so much more intriguing.)
I don’t buy the name on the shirt or shoes or handbag. I’m buying the confidence of knowing that no matter how late I am or how much weight I need to lose, I can still walk with my head held high! I know that my daughters think I’m the prettiest woman in the world. At least until they pick up the next issue of GLAMOUR and see Kate Winslett or Demi Moore in the flesh with not so much as 1-square inch of cellulite. But, whatever.
My BFF happens to have the same affliction with shoes as I do with handbags. I once received an email with nothing more than a picture of her new, zebra-striped pumps that were being modeled straight from her own foot. It was so cute. And the shoes were to die for! Her recent blog (http://runamokamok.wordpress.com/) showed her latest on-line purchase of pink pumps embellished with a satin bow on the toe. They’d match my pink Guess clutch perfectly!
The point being – there’s no therapy like “Retail Therapy”. You can buy clothes for your husband, toys for your children, give money to the church, donate to charity and still – nothing says “Love Yourself” more than 3 of your closest friends, a trip to Starbucks, and two hands full of paper and plastic labeled Aldo and Sephora and White House/Black Market and Helzberg’s and Bebe and………..there goes that song again.