I have two daughters and we enjoy shopping a lot, much to their father’s vexation amusement. “Ooh mom! You should try this on! It would look sooo good on you,” they’ll say of some backless romper or Brazilian bikini and then I’ll buy them whatever they want because obviously.

I know, the whole mother-daughter-shopping this is totally cliche. Except I cannot remember a single time that my own mom took me clothes shopping. Oh, she’d drop me off at the mall with money, and sometimes she’d even order me something I fell madly in love with in the Sears catalog (I got a crinoline hoop skirt out of there for my birthday one year, no lie), but the whole scouring of racks and destroying of fitting rooms was not an activity she enjoyed, a fact I couldn’t even fathom.

“Want to go to the mall?” I’d plead every other day.
“We don’t need anything,” she’d reply every single time.

What did need have to do with anything? 

My entire childhood summed up, fashion-wise.

I could–and still can–shop for unholy stretches at a time; mom thought of shopping not as an activity but a necessary evil. (“Damn it, we’re out of socks again.”) I’m sure if pressed, she would have said  something along the lines of, “you wear a uniform to school and we live in Florida so it’s not like you need much more than some Dolphin shorts and a few pairs of flip-flops anyway.”

Naturally, I was going to do things differently with my own children.

In their collective defense, they both tried (I won’t say desperately but maybe passionately?to persuade me not to buy a certain neon sequin shift dress that may look a lot like this one:

The older one made muffled gagging sounds complete with full-body spasms when I came out of the fitting room. “Oh God. Please. No,” she convulsed.

Her younger sister tried a gentler approach. “Where are you going to wear it?” she asked with so much confidence and just enough disdain that it felt like a challenge.

“It’ll look better with a fake tan!” I promised them, inserting my chip into the reader. “We’re going to pretend we don’t know you,” their looks said.

That was two years ago and it still has the tags on it, dammit. You can’t really tell from the picture, but it really is neon and it really is covered entirely in sequins. It weighs roughly as much as I do, and it feels like baby fire ants are nibbling on the insides of my arms whenever they rub against it. And also, I still haven’t figured out the answer to “where are you going to wear it?” 

I guess I didn’t need it after all. (Mom would have been proud just then.)

Thank God for the Halloween tub is all I can say. I’m thinking with white pleather boots and a clip-on ponytail this could be Nancy Sinatra all day long.


P.S. I literally just realized that the no less than eighteen grand I’ve spent on bad fashion choices was actually therapy money well spent! Who wants to go shopping with me to celebrate?

P.P.S. If you’re enjoying this blog, please consider sharing it with a fellow hoarder/shopping-addict/everyone you know. The more the merrier.