We all had our coping mechanisms. Hers was shopping. Not fancy high-end shopping but she’d always spot a good deal. And her eyes would light up with every purchase. Shoes, earrings, skirts, anything would do. If it was a bargain and pretty, she almost always lost her heart over it. No, she wasn’t a spendthrift. Just a rather smart shopper.
She reminded me of Becky Bloomwood from the Shopaholic novels by Sophie Kinsella, albeit a lot smarter, rational and less frivolous. The lady in question had a mind of her own, was sufficiently opinionated and had her feet firm on the ground.
Every article was purchased after much thought and deliberation as to where it would fit in her wardrobe. Earrings to match a particular pair of shoes she had picked out at Colaba Causeway, a few weeks ago; a stole to complement the skirt gifted by the boy; and a pair of red pumps because she was particularly indulgent one muggy summer evening.
The act of shopping and the novelty provided her with such a high that occasionally the article in question got irrelevant. It could be something as small and trivial as a new bracelet or a pair of bathroom chappals. Personal milestones were recorded with shopping expeditions. A new leather bag to celebrate a promotion at work, Osho chappals for new beginnings and a bottle of nail paint for when the gal pals dropped in for girl-talk.
Shopping helped her gloss over the inadequacies of her life. It was the balm for her soul, tissue for her tears and the reinforcement for her cherubic smile. She brightened up her world, one shopping bag at a time.