Driving along several interstates this past weekend, we passed multiple outlet malls. All had billboards miles in advance to alert travelers to the shopping opportunities ahead. At least one of the malls had movie theaters, bowling alleys, and other entertainment venues attached. We drove past each with barely a glance.
Most women I know love to shop. For some, it’s their drug of choice–a stress reliever. Not me. Nothing makes me want to crawl out of my skin quite so badly as going into a store–any store–to browse. If I don’t have a specific purchase in mind, I have no desire to go into a store. In fact, I balk like a mule every time my sister or a friend tries to interest me in recreational shopping. I just don’t get it.
To my mind, there are way more entertaining things to do–like, maybe, watch concrete harden. I’ve tried to explain this, but I get blank, sympathetic stares.
And another thing… If I’m driving along, minding my own business, and have no pressing need for say, a clever new set of cocktail napkins that say, “I’m a hybrid–I run on chocolate and wine,” or perhaps a new set of wine charms, or even a scented candle, why would I stop to browse a store filled with such things?
I’m sure the hypothetical store would smell nice and be filled with displays of artsy things pleasing to the eye. But here’s the thing. This store is filled with things that I don’t know I want as I drive by on the interstate. I am content in my car. But if I stop and go inside the store, once I’m over being cranky at having done so, I will see things I want. Things that are not currently in my budget. And then I will be unhappy if I do not purchase them.
It’s best I stay in the car.