Once upon a time, before recessions and job losses, I shopped a lot – or at least it seems like a lot when I look back on it. In comparison to some women, I suppose it was trifling. But in my younger days, I enjoyed a good bit of retail therapy. It was fun to get new things. A shiny pair of earrings for instance, or a cute little purse. Some fun throw pillows for the bed, or new placemats for the kitchen table.
And books. Lots of books.
I’ve about outgrown my love of shopping, at least in terms of feeling the need to shop to lift my spirits. I don’t want any more “stuff” for my house (at least, not this house), and clothes don’t excite me the way they once did. I’d usually rather spend my time walking around a nice park than a shopping mall, and I’m just as happy with getting most of my books from the library.
It’s probably a good thing that age has eliminated some of my need to buy, because unless I take up online sports betting and develop a pretty good winning streak, I can’t see throwing money away on needless stuff. I’d rather save it up for trips to Dallas to visit my grandson, or to the brand new Disney resort in Hawaii. Besides, someday people around here (namely my husband) are going to want to retire, and with the investment markets as insecure as they are, no matter how much money we save I have a feeling it won’t be enough. Unless our mutual fund managers also start to place bets on the Detroit Tigers while they’re still winning.
So I look for “therapy” in places other than stores – in a walk around the block, a cuddle with my puppies, a nice glass of wine and a good movie on the DVR. All relatively cheap, and very therapeutic.