Image courtesy of Westin.

I don’t like shopping.

Well, that’s a lie. But I’ve discovered that I don’t like shopping for specific items. It becomes too much like a task.

When I was shopping for new winter boots (an enterprise which — not surprisingly — failed, by the way), I came to this not-so-stunning realization.

What happens with targeted shopping is just like the unfortunate transformation that reading somehow undergoes when it must be undertaken for a class: I love Anna Karenina, but if I was required to read it for a Russian Lit class, it would be a significantly more arduous process than it already can be.

Of course, upon finishing the novel for the course, or finding the right dress for the particular party, the elation and success might be greater than they would be otherwise. But I can never quite recognize that factor while in the moment, or call upon it to motivate me throughout the process.

Shopping becomes work when looking for a specific item. The whole enterprise loses its wonderful fortuitousness. I kinda hate it. It’s great when you succeed, but not as great as when you find something that you weren’t even looking for and didn’t even know that you had to have; the success is a relief rather than a wonderful surprise.

So, I’ve concluded that aimless shopping is where it’s at. Is that weird? Maybe I do have a (bourgeois) problem…