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Dear Sophie!

After I found in you a Shopping-fellow-sufferer, as I could see from your letter, I wanted to first breathe a sigh of relief. Another woman who cannot do much with the shopping mania. At least that was my first reaction. The second, however, was already amazement, because I had to say resignedly that I have probably found in you no fellow sufferer, because you do not suffer from your shopping phobia. I, on the other hand, for as long as I can remember, I wish nothing more than to be a full-fledged woman, with all the virtues that characterize one.

I got my positioning a quarter of a century ago, when a good friend said: You are not a woman! At that age, I took it as a challenge, as an incentive, because there was hope. I could still become one, but despite all efforts did not change much, and then for the worse. I wished so much, I could break out in euphoria alone at the thought, now I can go shopping shoes, then, after successful hunting, for hours to chew on the experience with your best friend can. I still think how wonderful it would be if my sweetheart could bestow me with jewelry or scarves, and I did not pragmatically point out that I already had something like that and that everything is unnecessary. Only recently did I realize the full extent of my immorality, when my daughter soberly said that women were so easy to give, to add, after a quick glance at me, except you mom. There it was again, the confirmation of my immortality.

I still make shopping lists. What is the consortium of others is the shopping list. A pure delaying tactic. If my mother points out to me it’s time for new shoes, then I look at them briefly and notice that they are actually still good, which may mean as much as, they are not falling apart yet. That does not apply to my mother. We have to go immediately. Then comes my trump. You know what, I say, I write it on my shopping list, then you can do much more at once. The advantage is, I decide when the shopping list is so full that it pays off. Over time, I can repaint the first things, so they never really get long enough. And I am well aware that all this is a mere act of compensation, because the mere thought of a shopping center leads to increased heart rate, irregular heartbeat and attacks of acute respiratory distress. The only thing that keeps me alive, should I be forced to pay a visit, is to take the shortest route to the next bookstore. I can breathe freely again. But I do not want all that.

Maybe I’m looking for a shopping therapist to heal me with confrontation therapy or hypnotize the learned phobia or eliminate childhood trauma. Then I finally become a full-fledged woman. But maybe I do not need all that anymore, if I really take the message of the book “What women think of except shoes” and I focus on the really essential: shoes, and then everything will be fine, the God-given order is restored, so that I can finally scream with happiness if I’m allowed to go shopping and not in pain anymore. Or maybe we both join the ASD (Anonymous Shopping Deniers) and then finally unfold our femininity without restriction, whether you like it or not.

Hopeful greetings,
Daniela

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