Retail Therapy

The sudden arrival of hot weather prompts a hasty cull of old garments too far gone to keep and a reorganisation of my wardrobe for the coming Summer. Only one new item is needed. In a moment of self-indulgence, I decide on some retail therapy to lift my spirits after the dismal reality of seeing how I look in my familiar summer clothes. Perhaps a trip to the Macquarie Shopping Centre, my nearest major shopping mall, will do the trick? Many months have passed since I had last visited that vast and popular complex and maybe another look around would be rewarding . . .

Somewhat hesitantly, I drive around the now unfamiliar parking station, relieved at this early afternoon hour to find few others around. Parking the car is not my strong point [there are many jokes about women and car-parking]. But I am dismayed that as soon as I begin the challenge of easing the car into a rather tight spot, other vehicles appear from nowhere, drivers watching and impatient for me to finish. This is not a good start and my pulse rate increases, but at last I hop out of the car and hurry to the nearest exit, noting only that I am on level 4.

To my surprise, I find I have immediate access into MYERS department store and won’t have to walk to another level. But each visit I make tells me the whole place has been reorganised because once again I am feeling somewhat uncertain of my bearings, at least at the start. I become visually over-stimulated as I begin to walk through the huge and confusing array of goods. Although I switch straight away into my practised shopping trance, completely detached from the cares of the world and fully focussed on finding what I have come for, I am also very quickly truly lost. For some time I continue to amble around the store, trying to look nonchalant while holding back my rising level of anxiety. At least I am still capable of noticing that much high-fashion women’s wear seems so thrown together, wrinkled and not properly finished that it would not be out of place in my duster bag. I accuse myself of showing signs of elderly bias [‘Things were better in the good old days!’] and wander on, only to become Alice in Wonderland as I stroll through a forest of display ‘trees’ heavily draped with rainbow-hued women’s underwear. Some of the bras intrigue me. They are no longer the humble, soft beige, white or black numbers of yesteryear. These are breast-shaped, rounded and firm, no doubt to assist those whose natural endowments need a little boost. ‘Clearly not for me,’ I muse and continue searching for a clue as to the location of an exit to the inner mall shopping area.

‘Aha! There it is!’ As I spy it, my step quickens in relief and I hurry out, almost running. At last, I have begun to get my bearings. Now my goal is TARGET, but it’s one level down. I look for the escalator. It is, of course, not only not working, but barred off. I can’t even walk down it. Taking a deep breath, and noting that my hips are already complaining, I set out on the long, spiralling walk to the next level. On the way, I explore many little shops bursting with more colourful clothes, but alas, all designed with younger slimmer figures than mine in mind. Tentatively, I try on a few possible candidates, but can only laugh at my reflected image. I return them to their racks, baring my teeth in what I hope resembles a pleasant smile to the hopeful shop assistants watching me.

At last, I am in TARGET. But whereas its potential in earlier days to meet my requirements would have filled me with happy anticipation, now I feel only bemused by the racks and racks of garments made for the very slim, the very pregnant or the very big. I find nothing remotely suitable. I decide I need a drink.

For a few quiet moments, I enjoy a long, refreshing iced coffee as I sit with a scattering of other tired shoppers also taking a break. Reflection on all I have seen, touched and tried on allows a choice of purchase to distil and I am soon back in the small shop buying the item which comes nearest to my requirements. At least, by good luck, I have chosen a day when a generous discount applies. My spirits rise again. Now I can go home.

But, returning to Level 4 of the car park, I am taken aback once more. Where have I left my car? It is not where I thought it was. Surely it has not been stolen? Taking a deep breath to control the sinking feeling that sweeps through me, I stroll around looking carefully and noting that nearly all the cars seem to be silver grey like mine. Perhaps I should wait til all the other cars have gone? No – silly idea! I walk on to one end of the parking area, feeling ever more shaky, turn and walk slowly back the other way convinced that I am rapidly losing the plot and totally unsure of what to do next when, with a glance sideways, I see it. I laugh bitterly at my forgetfulness. ‘Old age creepeth on apace!’ I mutter, climbing in to the car thankfully. I am relieved that the long, slow haul home through dense peak hour traffic, normally an unattractive prospect, has at least one benefit. It will provide, in the warm familiarity of my car, a chance to find healing from the stressful ordeal of retail therapy.

4 Nov 2008