Retail Therapy

I took my older daughter, E, shopping at the mall on Saturday night, against my better judgment. I wanted to go see a band which was playing for free downtown at a street festival. Bands that I like don’t usually come to my town, so I was pretty bummed to miss it because I had to go shopping, or that I didn’t have a babysitter to do the shopping part for me. But E was even more bummed. Her pre-pubescent hormones were on a rampage and none of the friends she called at the last minute were available to hang out. The only way I could console her, since the little squares of dark chocolate I normally use to calm her were not working, was a trip to Aeropostale for a new t-shirt that looks like all the other t-shirts she owns from Aeropostale. I wish someone could explain to me the power this store has over tween girls.


It doesn’t matter, though, because she was happy with a $15 Henley and a $5 headband from JCrew. It’s cheaper as an evening out than going to the movies, and as long as I kept my mouth shut, which meant no comments out loud about her selections, or the stores in general, or the other mall patrons being her boyfriend, or singing along with the background music, or anything else that could be classified as embarrassing, then she could consider the evening a success and I could still be viewed as appropriate company for her to keep.

I didn’t go shopping in malls with my mother when I was a kid. Being the youngest of three girls, I was subjected to more than my fair share of hand-me-downs. My only saving grace was my extra plumpness, as I could not fit into many of my string bean older sister’s discards. That was my ticket to new clothes. I could only squeeze myself into so many dresses that looked like sausage casing before my mother was forced to do something about it.

What I so desperately desired were those pricey Garanimals, which were sold at department stores. They had animal tags that you could use to determine what tops went with what bottoms, in case you were too inept, color blind, or stupid to figure it out on your own. I am pretty sure Garanimals are now yet another crappy line of clothing available at the local Wal-Mart, but back in their heyday, they were expensive, cute, and totally out of my league.

Instead, my mom would take me to Marshall’s and TJ Maxx, from which I wore a lot of odd colored items and socks that were sewn so poorly I couldn’t get them over my feet without cutting off the circulation. The bulk of the merchandise there was of the irregular or damaged variety, instead of the overruns or past season items that you can find nowadays. New clothes shopping was not a back to school adventure, but rather a desperate attempt to find something to fit, occasion by occasion, and I don’t remember ever getting anything just because I liked it. What I wouldn’t have given for a Target about twenty years ago.


My mom, on the other hand, treated herself like the queen she thought she was. She bought clothing at fancy mall boutiques to supplement her own discount store purchases. I remember her in all sorts of draped fabrics, odd hemlines, shoulder pads, metallic leather belts, and many other things that looked like they could have come from Stevie Nicks' or Grace Jones’ wardrobe. She favored neutrals to colors, and had a vast array of rags that looked remarkably like the other rags next to them, all of which cost more than they should have just because they had a Norma Kamali tag.

What she loved most of all were shoes. My mother could buy shoes the way other people bought eggs. She wore a size 5 ½ and at her petite height of barely five feet, she was partial to heels. She had heels in all styles to match any kind of outfit she might possibly throw together: wooden Candie’s slides, clogs, mules, boots, pumps, and spectators.Once she even bought a pair of size four Hippopotamus pumps in purple and white because they were a steal, even though she didn't own anything either purple or white, nor could she squeeze her trotters into them.

I could spend forever in the shoe department, trying on the ugliest, highest heels I could find, real stripper shoes. It was a quest every time to try to find the most nauseating footwear available and teeter around in them until my mom would yell at me. I delighted in my game, however, and always found the price of a public berating worth it.

While I did outgrow the hiding in the circular clothing racks until Mom would yank me out and yell at me, I never did outgrow my love for trying on shoes. I made E take a break from the Hollister and American Eagle Outfitters to join me in the Macy’s shoe department long enough to soothe my inner foot model. And that is where I found the perfect pair of shoes. It was halfway between a pump and a boot, with a bit of Mary Jane strappiness thrown in for good measure. It was a dark saddle brown, and while it had what looked like a bronze rivet or button on the side, it was purely for decoration. It did not require unfastening or untying, and only a true shoe person would understand how to wear it. I slid my foot into the sample size, and it fit like a glove designed for a foot, which is not the same as a sock at all.

I loved it. I loved the way it made my ankle look. I loved the fact that it wasn’t too high, and almost felt comfortable. I loved the way it would have looked just as good with jeans as it would with a dress. I loved that it felt like it was made for my foot alone.

I slipped it off and looked at it closely. Yes, I was a bit put off by the $199 price tag. But what disturbed me more was the way it smelled exactly like the shoes my mother would bring home for herself. It was the smell of good, rich leather. It was a smell I remember her saving for herself. It was not a smell I remembered ever enjoying personally, but rather, a smell I always associated with my mother and how she reserved the best things for herself while I grew up being the third person to wear some cheap store brand panties. I put the shoes down and took E to the next store she wanted to visit.

I can afford the occasional pair of fine leather shoes, if I can get past the memory that comes with it. But that Saturday night shopping trip wasn’t about me. It was about my daughter and making up for the fact that she is having a tough time starting out her teen years. If a new shirt can make her happy, for just a little while, and she understands it is not because she demands or thinks she deserves it, then yes, ask and ye shall receive. A just because shirt is enough to show her that what she wants does matter and what she needs can be provided. Maybe it wasn’t the purchase so much as my time that made the evening a success. When she was three, it was a kiss or a band aid that made all the difference. Now, it is the sacrifice of a Saturday night at the mall to show how much I care.