I’m not a hoarder or a shopaholic.
Before I go any further, I need to establish that right up front. I’m neither of those things, but I admit, I CAN understand the impulse.
See, I do love to shop. But it’s not about spending money or being materialistic or wanting to keep up with some mysterious Joneses.
For me? Shopping is a way to change my life.
Wait, let me rephrase that.
When I go shopping—whether it’s to an outlet mall or flea market or just for a weekly grocery run—I’m always convinced that THIS shopping trip will be the one, the one where I finally find that missing piece from my life. I’ll buy it (whatever it might be), and then suddenly, magically, everything will fall into place and my life will be perfect.
Now, it doesn’t take a trained psychologist to know that there IS no missing piece—at least, there’s no missing piece “out there,” waiting to be bought at the garage sale down the street.
No, no. I get it. The “missing piece” is inside of me—or, rather, it’s missing FROM inside me and the only way to fill it and finally live that “perfect life” (that is, beyond realizing that such a thing doesn’t exist) is to acknowledge all my hopes and dreams and loves and disappointments, work through it all, and become a fully self-actualized human being.
I totally understand that. And I also know that creating a “perfect life” takes effort.
These days, however, I have way too much other work on my schedule, so until I have a little free time to spend self-actualizing, I think I’ll take the lazy way out and just do a little shopping, because sometimes, the anticipation of finding the perfect thing is almost as good as actually getting it.
Want to meet me at the mall?