I love the scene in Moonstruck when Cher comes home from her makeover, and sits down in front of the fire with a glass of red wine, her purchases arrayed around her.
It’s the best part of our American national pastime—the bags, the relishing, the post-purchase glow. Like most sports, I hate that fiercest of sports especially: shopping, with all its schlepping, and its changing rooms, the putting off/on of shoes, requisite banter with the shopkeep, the alarming deflation of sizes, and inflation of prices.
It really isn’t the money thing—I mean, yes, I once bought my entire summer wardrobe at a lesbian garage sale and never felt so cocky and devil-may-care, but they were friends, cleaning out the house in preparation for a long-awaited adopted baby, and I wanted to do my part. (“How’s the……baby hunt?” I once yelled across the street to them early on in their process, demonstrating my typical tact.)
“I don’t WEAR fur, darling—I AM fur.”
Obviously I don’t hate money, but we h…
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