Do You Suffer From Shopping Eyes?

It happened suddenly. Unexpectedly. Like waking up on the first dawn of creation. Or after LASIK surgery. Or after tasting that key lime/coconut frozen yogurt with those funky little Japanese mochi-thingies on it for the first time. Yea, I was blind. And suddenly I CAN SEE.

I have a slight shopping issue. Some might even call it a problem. My husband does. Well, he doesn't come right out and say it, but he gets this look whenever I walk out of my boudoir wearing a new item of clothing. WHICH DOESN'T HAPPEN THAT OFTEN. REALLY. PRETTY MUCH. And I know that look. It says "Dear. Our credit cards are whimpering. Please return that. Unless it would pain you to do so. If so then don't. I love you. I'll suffer in silence while I watch you drain away our savings." THAT look.

Anyway, this thing that happened suddenly that (almost) changed everything? It went like this:

I was walking along in my local upscale department store (Doo-da-doo) humming to myself because I do that. And I was getting blinged right in the eye by the way the fluorescent lighting cleverly played off of the jewelry displays, and all the little metal details and fabrics on the shoes, and all the mirrors tilted just-so at the makeup counters so you could see the contrast between your dull draggety self and the aloof-to-the-point-of-barely-being-able-to-wait-on-you-because-they're-gorgeous-and-perfectly-cosmeticked sales associates at the cosmetic counters. And I found myself wishing–Oh! Wishing!–that I had the money to be so beautiful and bling-y. The money to do more than just maybe hope there was a double annual sale going on so I could purchase a pair of sockless-socks at the hosiery department and then wish for the Steve Madden sparkle shoes sitting on the rotating pedestal over on the opposite side. (nevermindtheLouboutin'sthatwouldcostmychild'sentirecollegefund). I wished I could just walk right in there and plunk money down for whatever I wanted, because I was as elegant and fabulous as this store and it's employees. Also, so were my kids. (I'm not selfish.)

*sigh*

And then, something happened. It was entirely without preamble. There was no shaking of the earth. No music chiming to indicate the presence of fairies or angels. Nothing. I stood there between the MAC counter and the Fall Shoe Collection, adjacent to the elevators that would lead me to 7 For All Mankind heaven, and suddenly, as though scales fell from my eyes, I could see.

This elegant, upscale store had once been a much less fancy-pants establishment. In fact, I had worked there one particularly whacked-out Christmas when I had just gotten engaged and was trying to earn money so we could keep going to school. And maybe buy a car. It was an old, serviceable store.

Now zoom back to the present: as I stood there, the old serviceable store  suddenly superimposed itself–in my mind's eye– over the new fabuloso upscale establishment. And all the bling and flash and aromatherapy and euro-rock playing in the background suddenly looked drabbed-out. You know, the way Christmas decorations do the day after Christmas. It looked like it was trying. Really hard. And I realized that, yeah, there were some nice things here. But ultimately, what made this place special was it's own assurance that it was. Plus a great deal of camouflage. Underneath, it was just a serviceable store with full-of-itself prices.

Without all that aura and assurance, this place was just Walmart on steroids.

Dudes. This is something these stores do very well, and it has a name. It's called "Shopping Eyes." It is created just as easily as you and I create carbon dioxide. Throw enough glitter and flash out there, dress the employees up like they live in Paris and only come to the store to work when they're slumming it, tell all of us that the store and its employees are better than everything else, and voilá! Suddenly customers come down with "Shopping Eyes." In epidemic proportions

Well. I'm cured. No longer do I look at flashy displays and see flashy displays. Nope. Not one bit. I see truth, baby.

At least, I'm pretty sure I see truth. I mean, I totally know that these places are just a lot of marketing and hype and the creating of magical ambiance. But . . . oh my. Have you seen the shoes? And how nicely-turned they make your ankles look? And what about that woman up in formal wear who tells you the dress makes you look like you've never carried so much as a fanny pack in front of your hips, much less 4 children. And the guy in Perfumes who tells you that this scent is you? And you smell ravishingly like you belong in a Parisian Salon?  I . . . I . . . 

Sorry. There's no cure for Shopping Eyes. My husband is just going to have to get a second job.

I'm off. (Doo-da-doo)