By the time you finish reading this article, I will still be knee-deep in blouses, shoes, possibly boots, and definitely pashmina wraps. It started innocently enough: we sold our home in Greenwood Village, planning to buy another right away. But the real estate market had other ideas, so we made lemonade out of lemons… zesty, adventurous, exotic lemonade. We packed a few suitcases, stashed everything else in a storage unit, and traveled the world for two years.
It was magical. The majesty of the Austrian mountains, waterfalls in Croatia, narrow cobbled streets in Italy, sunsets in Morocco, and all the while, our worldly possessions sat quietly in storage, multiplying like rabbits.
Fast-forward to our return to Denver, where we finally found a lovely home in the neighborhood of our dreams. We opened the door to our storage unit, expecting a few boxes and maybe some Christmas decorations. Instead, it was like entering a forgotten wing of Macy’s. Clothes. Shoes. Handbags. More clothes. Clothes with tags still on them. Clothes that, I swear, were reproducing in the dark.
As we unpacked, I kept asking myself: How did I own this many clothes and yet live perfectly fine with just three sundresses and a hoodie for two years? That’s when I had to face the truth…America has a stuff problem. And I am Exhibit A.
Let’s talk about shopping. Oh, it is not just an errand. It’s an experience, a sport, a therapy session, and a spiritual awakening all rolled into one. You walk into the store, and there it is: the perfect lighting, the color-coded racks, the smells, the whisper of a 30% off sale. Somewhere, a curated display of mannequins calls your name, like a siren luring you toward your tenth black blazer.
Your brain lights up like Times Square. Dopamine, the feel-good chemical, starts flowing the moment you spot that buttery-soft, salmon-pink, oh so feminine blouse, that will go with everything…never mind that you already own three. This one has buttons shaped like little seashells. This one is special and unique, and it is on sale!
The retail world knows exactly how to reel you in. That scent wafting through the store? Intentional. The way the sizes are arranged from smallest to largest? This must be a subtle manipulation to make you feel like you might be a size smaller today. It’s psychological warfare with hemlines.
Add in a sale sign, Buy One Get One Half Off, and all logic goes out the window. Your brain says: “Savings!” Your closet whispers: “Mercy!”
But it’s not just about buying. It’s about the fantasy. Each piece of clothing represents a version of ourselves we are buying into: “This dress is for my someday Broadmoor brunch.” “These heels are for my imaginary gala invite.” “This linen jumpsuit is for that future me who drinks veggie juice smoothies and looks a tad taller.”
Now, as I unpack bag after bag, I realize I’ve been curating a museum of imagined identities. And the irony is, I was the most content with a tiny suitcase and sandals that saw five continents.
Here I am, drowning in stuff I forgot I loved. So, if you see me shopping, arrest me. joneen@narme.org