Sport Shopping

I run my hand over the smooth ceramic of a demitasse cup, gently pinching my thumb and pointer around the looping handle, grateful for the singularity of the tin coffee pods. Too small, you said, about those cups; your callused hands could not embrace them. A mug, a cuppa joe, you wanted. 

The house is silent. Coffee in hand, I slip into fuzzy fleece slippers, courtesy of Costco, cheaper by the dozen. No longer am I one in a pair. 

Kitten heels, stilettos, and flats with leather uppers call out to me, longing for attention. Designer bags and sunglasses matched for any occasion fill every inch of my closet. Straw hats, ball caps, and cozy winter cloches wait for their moment when the seasons change. 

No longer do I need my sturdy boots that sloshed through snow and puddles, walking children to school and home again. Nor do I need the boots that ascend beyond my knees with heels that say come love me, please. 

Canvas boat shoes, jelly sandals, and slides with bows and buttons recall sunny beach days when children filled pails with broken shells worn smooth by pounding surf. A boy and girl shrieked with joy, burying you in the sand. “Where did Daddy go?” I’d say. “He’s gone,” they’d giggle.

The children grew up, graduating from kindergarten, middle school, and high school. Barbies, Legos, toy trucks, and picture books traded in for caps and gowns. Diplomas and degrees replaced spelling tests and bandaged knees. 

And you moved on too. 

When the children left, you found new hobbies and new interests. In doing so, you replaced me, too, and got yourself an upgrade. Younger, blonder, tighter: a trophy for your shelf.

New-found friends, pashminas and pareos in cashmere, silk, and satin, embrace me now; protect me. Beads and tassels bedazzle every inch of me. I devour the racks for lacey shrouds to wrap myself in, a phantom hug to drive away loneliness. Rings and chains and charms, earrings, toe rings, and nose rings stay hidden in the velvet bed of my jewelry box.

My solitary pursuit continues, as there’s no one left to satisfy but me. 

Your last gift to me, the watch with tiny diamonds, is for the woman who has somewhere else to be. For someone who will miss them if they’re late. Now, I watch a screen to tell me how poorly I have slept or how many more steps I must take that day. 

This virtual walking buddy keeps me company when I roam the streets. 

~

In the shops, I hungrily, greedily search through racks and bins in my singularity and boredom. The ladies know me. I am embarrassed with the company I keep, shopping, wasting, needing nothing. There’s nothing left to buy, no one to parade for. 

But I don’t give up, I don’t relent. My new self is on the way. 

Buttocks, breasts, and lips are firmer now. Botox and fillers. What’s left to jab and fill? Acrylics, gels, powdery dips, I admire my shining nails baked hard by UV light. Soon my fingertips will be erased along with the old rest of me.

My mouth is slashed in red, magenta, or fuchsia, depending on the day. Lipstick, glow stick, serums, unguents, cover up what’s left of me. Every second Wednesday, I lie prone on my esthetician’s table, my shoulders relaxed until the hot wax strips sheer my legs and upper lip. I’m smooth again; I’m new. 

“Full or partial?” Full, I say and close my eyes, feeling the flutter of the mink glued one by one to lashes. One hour, then two. Dreaming, remembering, wanting. Tinting, plucking, and perfecting, there is more wax to my brows. Hurry now and fill me up. Satisfy me with momentary pleasure. There is nothing left to do. 

How fun it is to dress and primp for nameless shop girls. Fine cuffs and sparkling bracelets shackle my wrists and ankles, binding me in my pursuit. I stumble from boutique to boutique, fashioned for the occasion. I, too, can be a bag lady, so long as it is Gucci. 

My shelves are full, there’s no room left, but one more time, I say, “I’ll take that, please.” Adrenaline rushes as I’m handed the glossy white bag trimmed in black around the edges. A velvet bow secures the handles; scented tissue cocoons my purchase. I peek inside; what did I buy again?

I meld into the crowded store where perfume floats around me. A tuxedo-clad young man flourishes at the grand piano; his tunes are light and airy. I smile and wink; he is the highlight of my week.

“Table for one,” I say, taking my seat in the posh cafe. “Champagne.” The server knows but asks me, anyway. 

There was a time I would have asked, “Am I good enough for you?” My smile is bright; my chin is high. The silver chain around my wrist is heavy as I raise my glass; I toast myself on getting through the week.

I’m good enough for me.