The Art of Shopping

Banana Republic. Coach. Gap. Calvin Klein. Aeropostale to Zumiez and every name in between.

I leave a little trail of change throughout the complex. My children relieve me of the burden material wealth with each and every threshold we cross.

Pat tries on and refuses at least two dozen pair of sneakers even after first ascertaining that they meet a specific set of criteria. High tops. One of four acceptable brands. Not white. It is harder than you'd think.

Out of sheer frustration, I leave him to his own devices with a cell phone and go to see what damage Hil is scheming to inflict on my financial security. Pat can call me when he's found the goose that lays the golden egg. He can text me pictures if he is unsure.

Hil has expertly rifled through dozens of shelves and racks and piles and has assembled a new fall wardrobe of her own design. I can't argue. It's a new year, she needs new sizes and new styles. And at least she has picked out the clothes herself. I won't find them under the bed with no hope of circulating into the weekly wardrobe. Afterall, 7th grade is a big year. No one wants to admit their mother approved of, much less picked out, their clothes.

I examine each article and cautiously approve after seeing her try on a pair of pants and a least one shirt. I want to see how everything looks on her actual body. I want to make sure we are taking home only the things that don't make a spectacle of her prepubescent body parts. You'd think half of these stores are owned an operated by Trollops R Us. Who needs to have their absorption of algebraic principles interfered with by someone's exposed hip bones?

As I fork over pounds of cash, my phone buzzes and buzzes again. Pat with two pairs of shoes by camera phone. Both cool. Both expensive but not to the point of needing to refinance my mortgage.

Hil and I schlep to meet Pat and I am wondering how I can bribe them to let me spend some time trying on a little fabulous for myself.