Why do People Think I Like Shopping?

1 Jun

 

 

Dear All Good People:

 

I wish to file this as a formal complaint with the human resources department: shopping as recreation.

 

For me, going shopping, when I have no intention of buying something, is a lot like attending a strip club: you see something you like, you want to bring it home, but if you do, you will regret it the next day. 

 

This is the problem I have with people who shop as a means of entertainment.

 

The issue is that many women in my life shop for recreation.  It is their hobby, a method of relaxation, it is one of their true passions..and they want to share their passion with me… to introduce me when they look at something they don’t need and can’t afford.

 

I cannot get over these hurdles.  Looking at stuff I don’t want, need, or even afford, doesn’t do it for me. 

 

I shop as infrequently as possible.  When I do shop, I have an idea of what I want.  When I know what I want, my shopping process is equivalant to Ancient Greek Philosophy.

 

(See, my philosophy major wasn’t a complete wast of money and time: take that parents!)

 

I have what Plato refers to as ontological conception of “forms”: I know what I’m looking, nay, questing for: I can see it in my head and I will search for it: no more, no less.  I like to view shopping as a commando mission: you’re in, you’re out and nobody knows you’re there.  I extract myself with my purchase before any sales-beast can get my contact info so they don’t think they can call me before 8 to tell me about a sale and how they need a commission to cover alcohol and gambling debts.

 

On the other hand, I haven’t updated my wardrobe in several years, but I work from home, usually in my pajamas and nobody sees me: what’s the big deal, who would care what I wore if I’m shopping for peaches, puppies, insurance, and cars?  [My gf, mother, sister-in-law views this as a big deal; I cannot win this argument because I’m constrained by logic…they stare at me like I have lobsters crawling out of my ears when I bring this up.]

 

My mother, whose sole hobby she takes pride in is shopping, is the worst at this.  She has to look at everything in a store for hours, even if she doesn’t want it.  She prawls stacks of clothing, furniture, and household items like a panther looking for a deal for something she might need if, for instance, a grand-daughter is produced, there’s a famine, a nuclear war, or an outbrack of zoombies. 

 

All these items end up in the same place: my parents basement.  They gather dust, only to be run accross years later where we wonder why there is twenty bini-babies [spelling] in a box.

 

During my childhood, I thought it was normal for someone to spend hours in a mall.  I ended up knowing department stores better than the employees.  I actually started to rope several employees into playing hide and seek with me in the ladies unmentionables deparment…their idea, not mine…it was years before I realized the joke…but it does explain why they laughed all the time…this also explains my interest in…never-mind.

 

For me, time spent shopping is below watching day-time television.  For G-d sake, watching CNBC with no money and unemployed is a better way to spend time, watching reruns of cheers and friends is better, even the Jerry Springer show is better than this because at least I get some entertainment and a few laughs out of it. 

 

With shopping, I just end up sitting on a bench wondering how the shop-aholics empathy for suffering and boredom stops at the entrance to a department store.  And, how, for some reason beyond my comprehension, their five minutes turns into my two hours.  When I bring this up, the same line is always repeated: “it was wasn’t that long.”  [I have a watch, I can read time, I know exactly how long this has been because I have been timing this.]

 

When I started driving, I thought that this would be the end of it.  I have control of the car, I own it, I have car keys, I can leave whenever.  Poor, naive, Chris: it only just begun.  Because at this point, is when they started wanting my opinion on what looks good.

 

HAHAHAHAHA.

 

These are the same people who wouldn’t want to be seen with me in public on most days, who think I dress like a hurrican victim, and always point out stains on my clothes that I couldn’t see unless I actually pointed the Hubble telescope at it and had it reviewed by the NASA experts after running computer models meant to reconstruct the composition of atoms. 

 

This is another freak occurence when they walk into a store: my fashion opinion suddenly matters.

 

I’ve tried suggesting that I’m going to go to the bookstore/bar/strip club near there, but like the Aegis missle system, they detect it, and launch counter-measures: they immedialty run off to the dressing room to try on clothes…and they want my opinion.  From there, I join my fellow bored-brothers outside the woman’s dressing room hoping that we don’t look like perverts while the sales woman thumb through the latest edition of male-perverts magazine looking for our pictures.

 

I have no solution for this problem.  If you do, please email me.  I’ll be sitting on a bench in a store.

 

Further Bulletins as Events Warrant

 

C.

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