Confessions of a Non-Shopaholic

Last Friday I was planning on stopping off at the mall after work to buy some socks. On my way there, I thought, hmm, I haven’t bought a new shirt in ages, and, seeing as how I’m going to this art show opening tonight, maybe I’ll buy a new tank top or something. I knew I had to meet someone in an hour, but I figured, hey, how long can it take to buy a shirt, right? Yeah, right. An hour went by, and I had nothing. I saw nothing even close to being something I would wear. But now I was invested. Now I HAD to find a shirt to wear that night. So after shlepping out to Langford to meet my friend for coffee, I went back to the mall. And I shopped. And tried stuff on. And shopped some more. And tried more stuff on. At this point, I knew that the chances of me finding something were pretty slim, but that was beside the point. I was now a woman on a mission. But everything I saw would either make me look like an old lady or, well, not much of a lady at all, if you catch my drift! Isn’t there something in between dowdy and ditzy? Between business suit and birthday suit? Between grandmama and hoochymama? Two malls and headache later, I finally gave up. So what did I wear to Olio? A tank top my parents gave me for Christmas five years ago and a scarf I bought at an antique store when I was fifteen. And I forgot to buy the socks.