How to Defeat a Shopaholic at Her Own Game

Last night I found myself attempting to beat box to my family over supper. My sister was my musical sidekick and carried out wild and flailing miming actions. This strange behaviour is not unusual in our family, but this time there was actually some context. We were trying, unsuccessfully, to recreate the mood of our shopping expedition in Manchester on the second Saturday of December when I went to stay with her at university. It was probably one of the most stressful experiences of my life. I am a hard-core shopaholic; I wouldn't make this shit up.

Shopping, for most girls at least, is a kind of ritualistic bonding activity. I'm ashamed on behalf of the sisterhood to admit that I tend to shop better alone, mostly because my unbounded spending power tends to drain others of theirs. My uni housemate regularly got dragged round Leeds city centre in my wake, so from second year on when we'd made more friends, there was a kind of silent agreement that we wouldn't shop together again. It's really only when the shops are closing that I declare I am 'shopped out' - my equivalent of 'tapping out' of a hard fought boxing match: I shop till I drop. Manchester City Centre was one of the toughest matches of my career in the ring, and I was tempted to tap out early on. My sister and I thought it would be a fun, sisterly, girly thing to do to go shopping together. We were MISTAKEN. 

Have you ever thought to yourself that you actually wanted to go shopping because you fancied a pre-night out in prep for the actual night out you still need an outfit for? No, neither have I. Yet every shop we went into had been transformed into a nightclub, complete with DJs; DJs, who also MC'd whilst you rode the escalators. As soon as I stepped into H&M my heart started beating faster, 'Allllriiiight H&M how we doing? Are you ready to get your Christmas presents TODAY?!!' I felt as if I had to grab items in time with the heavy bass that was coursing through my veins; I wouldn't have been surprised to see my pupils had dilated from the adrenaline rush, or to turn and see someone gurning behind me. The effect the music had on us was like some terrible trip. I don't know if the market research behind this atmosphere in shops is that it gets people psyched up into a spending frenzy, but it quite honestly caused me nausea and dehydration. I was mortified to have to take a seat next to the boyfriends and husbands relegated to the soft pleather stools outside the changing rooms to refocus. I wish I had been more spirited and broken into spasming dance moves.

But we ploughed on, not to be defeated. Hope was fairing remarkably well - perhaps because she has a more regular slew of similar nightlife in her weekly student schedule, while I have apparently aged beyond recognition. When we emerged from H&M, empty-handed, the opponent was still dominant. Great tides of humanity swarmed towards us, and we really had to punch and push our way over to Urban Outfitters. It's moments like this when you realise just how many humans there are in the world, and I questioned how many of them were enjoying the consumer experience? A large portion of the human race had certainly descended to give it a try. It was also one of those days were outside it was freezing, but inside any shop I thought I might spontaneously combust from overheating. Luckily I had worn a lot of layers, my other winning fights with the high street had not left me totally unprepared for my greatest challenge yet. 

Topshop was the same as H&M, with worse MCs and even more loaded bass. All I could keep saying was how stressed out I was, and that we could never bring our mother here - she doesn't even know what house music is, but she would have gained a pretty quick and trashy education in it. She might well have been in need of some booze, and maybe some mild drugs to get round the Arndale centre without crying. After 4 hours the only thing I emerged with was my work Secret Santa present: a book from Waterstones entitled 'Baking Bad' for my Walter White loving colleague.

 Since that fateful day I've been asking who on earth thought shoppers would be turned on by all of this sensory overload? Obviously no one can stop people descending on a city centre on a December Saturday, and I'm sure the shops still have their best turnovers on the weekend - but the experience only pissed me off. If there was ever a method in getting people not to buy stock, this would be it. There should be a sense of excitement and a gradual but unexpected build up, climaxing in the thrill of the purchase, not the sense that you're in a rush, it was distinctly average and all over too fast, leaving you with nothing but a faulty item and empty regret (I apologise for the innuendo). The big High Street names can rely on the fact that their products are cheap and cater for the masses, and so people will always buy, but no brand should rely on this and must continue to welcome its entire range of customers. Just like the music chosen can exclude and isolate, so does this approach. Trying to be young and hip will alienate mums shopping with their daughters, or just grumpy old women like me. I thought I was the Mohammed Ali of shopping, but even he was eventually beaten. 

Playing Grown Ups

Years ago, but it seems like yesterday, I discovered a pink razor in my parents bathroom and decided to shave my legs and arms. As well as that disastrous event, I would occasionally creep over to my Dad's chest of drawers and cause my armpits to violently sting by spraying myself with his Right Guard. It also doesn't seem that long since I covered my entire body, and my faithful doll Paula, in my mother's Lancome red lipstick. I was only doing what (I thought) I was seeing my parents do as part of their daily routines. Now, in a month's time, I have to get my shit together and stop playing at grown ups, because I'm GRADUATING and am about to join them in the ranks of adulthood for real.
That big, giant, scary word is now being flung around in conversation far too casually by people whose lives post-university are arrogantly sorted out or taken care of. But, perhaps more commonly, it is being muttered under short nervous breaths in conjunction with jittery eyes that look to the sky like an awkward man pretending he hasn't noticed a big pair of breasts in front of him. Our English Facebook thread on the topic of where to take our parents for lunch after our gown ceremony (jokes, they'll be paying since we'll all be broke) is entitled 'Graduation - Lol'. Even more taboo is the word JOB. I tend to find that the only people who ask whether you have a job lined up are either my parent's friends and acquaintances or other undergrads who do have a job waiting for them and like to bandy it around for all to see. Everyone else seems content to avoid the topic altogether, or ask what your 'plans' are from June onwards, a far vaguer term which, usually, happily steers the topic of conversation on to Summer holidays and which niche festival you'll be attending. 

I am hurtling towards graduation without my life being in order in any way, shape or form. I keep telling people I'd like to go into 'fashion marketing or editorial', which is true, but I'm not really 'going' anywhere at the moment. I argue consistently that the pressure of knowing and finding exactly what you want to do is almost impossible to cope with at the same time as trying to get a decent degree. I think in many ways university has taught me independence and time management, but it's also made me unable to rise before 9am or to focus my mind on more than one thing at a time, be it an essay or an episode of Girls. That's even when I've done more extra curricular stuff than other students would bother with. The other day over Sunday lunch, when my brother declared he was thinking about drama school, my mother deploringly asked us if at least one child could please be a lawyer, doctor or accountant. Nice, sensible jobs but I'm afraid mother dearest, not suitable for any of your frightfully creative and dysfunctional offspring. 

Whether I have a job or not, come June 3rd when I walk out of my final final, I will probably have to start acting like a grown up sharpish. I think in your final year at university they should offer transitional etiquette classes and not just CV-writing assistance. As I hound fashion companies for internships I will wave goodbye to my student discount (I weep), I will lose my loan (and begin debt) and, at least for a little while, will likely become another waitress who you'd never guess had a 2:1 in English Literature. But I just don't feel grown up and I'm still eating raisins from those miniature SunMaiden cardboard boxes for heaven's sake. The only sign that I am anywhere near ready for adulthood is that I sometimes write in my Filofax and now enjoy receiving scented candles and nice soap as gifts. 

There is some hope; I recently did an online test that told me I had the mental age of thirty-three. However, that I thoroughly enjoyed partaking in this bout of cyber-psychometrics, clearly compiled of utter b*****ks including the question 'were you a teacher's pet', is somewhat childish, wouldn't you say?  

Identity Crisis (Struggles of a Student Shopaholic)

I am a self-confessed/diagnosed shopaholic. It has been a burden on my parents, and their bank balance, since they first started giving me pocket money. While my sister managed to save all her money for months on end, as soon as I had reached £10 I headed to M&S to buy the faux-suede, cow-print, tasseled handbag I'd been eyeing up in the Girls section each time Mum went in to get her Gold teabags in the food section. I am aware my taste was questionable, but I think I was only about 9 years old and Toy Story 2 was out at the time. It was a slippery slope from thereon in really, from the Woolworths knee-high denim boots (yes, you did just read that) to the hair scrunchie made out of turquoise, sparkly, fanned out fake hair, if I wanted it, I found a way to have it. 

This dangerous way of living has continued into university life, where I'm supposed to be learning how to live independently and how to be a grown up, although I think we all know that the student life is a fairly unbalanced one. I dread to think what the world would be like if everyone continued to behave like students upon graduating. I started well, with savings still left over from my Gap Yah, even after blowing a small portion of them having declared that my entire wardrobe needed a reboot as it was full of straggly beach attire on arriving back from the beaches of South East Asia. Now I have an overdraft that too often I find myself living in, and no savings. They weren't all frittered away on clothes, but on tickets to bands (arriving at uni I became a slight cliche for a bit,  I got 'really into my music' and bought tickets for every night due to a huge sense of FOMO), trips to visit much-missed school friends at other unis, and a pretty kickass Summer. 

However, a lot of it was spent on clothes. I will admit that I'd rather spend money on clothes than a boozy night out, but ironically I often find myself buying 'going out clothes', the action in itself leaving no money for an occasion to wear said items. I think most people will agree, I'm talking about us girls here more than boys, that a new phase in your life brings a bit of an urge to revamp our style. Starting university is on of those phases, and in a place like Leeds, where students dress 'edgy' and start trends rather than follow them, it's difficult not to constantly carry a mental shopping basket around campus. My tiny halls cupboard-shelves started to sag with ripped denim shorts, oversized lumberjack shirts, and trainers. I have just re-read one of my first articles for a University Magazine where I levelled trainers with crocs in saying they would never be OK as everyday-wear. I now own two pairs of Nikes, three pairs of various Converse, a pair of Puma suedes, and two pairs of Office flatform plimsoles. Pot-kettle-black?

The trouble with all this is that I'm graduating in five months (I shudder) and I'm wondering how on earth my student-fare will weather in the real world, ideally the fashion world. It won't. I mean, can I legitimately wear Nikes to an interview? No. It was sheer torture to spend lunch breaks on Oxford street and return to watch the Vogue girls swanning around when I did work experience at Conde Nast last year, realising that I had nothing to wear that didn't look vintage/homeless in the wrong way. I do exaggerate, obviously being a shopaholic means I have many other kinds of shoes and I'm sure I can dig something out, but my point is that recently I've had to start thinking ahead each time I buy something. Am I beginning to squash the slightly more liberal, grungey dresser in me? I always have baskets filled with things on online shopping sites, and below is a selection of current 'wants'. On the left, sensible buys, on the right the party-loving-student-living-on-the-edge-only-acceptable-in-Leeds buys. Please read 'edge' with a pinch of salt as nowadays that term means mainstream and I'm definitely very much at the low end of the edgy-spectrum, my mother once deeming me a Punk because I got my second holes pierced. Technically, I can't afford any of it, but it won't stop me lusting after them and probably searching for loopholes in my bank account. Therefore, I continue to live with my minor identity crisis...   

Loafers: &OtherStories, Black and White Colour Block Top: ASOS, Sequinned Crop Top: Topshop, Boots: Vagabond @ Urban Outfitters. 

A Little Review of Semester One

I've been writing an anonymous column for Leeds university magazine Lippy, wittingly named 'Miss Lippy'. Although this blog is hardly anonymous I know that I'm at a fairly low risk of anyone reading my work (at least for now), so thought I'd publish it here too. This one was written about 6 weeks ago so is a bit out of date, so to speak. It's slightly cheesy [insert: I was told it must be accessible to all magazine readers, not just those inclined to dry, sardonic humour like myself] but it does provide a pretty quick round up of my first term of third year, i.e. the year from hell, workwise. A roundup so quick, I might add, it truly reflects the dramatic decrease in my socialising outside of the house. Initially it was intended to be an 'It Girl' column, hence the anonymity (Alexa Chung, eat your heart out), but that was deemed slightly elitist, and again, inaccessible. Fair doos. Also, who am I kidding, I am definitely no 'It Girl'. So, here it is:

This term has certainly been a shock to the system. I write this column, from home, whilst staring across my desk at a menacing pile of novels to be revised that as yet remain untouched. Third year is no laughing matter, and as my social life declined, inevitable sessions of retail therapy increased dramatically.

I once ventured out of my primitive existence (eat, sleep, rave, library, repeat) for Halloween, when I dressed as a Punk. The night was nothing to write home about, but I managed to convince at least five boys that my septum piercing was real and that I had chopped off my hair and died it blue. Another time when I made the mistake of thinking I could still handle alcohol, after weeks of academic sobriety, was when I attended a house party held by Leeds DJ collective Mavrik. They had found a kind/naïve (delete as applicable) young man willing to give up his house for the night and got local artists in to transform it from top to bottom with graffiti. I have to admit it was pretty spectacular, and after experiencing the different “vibes” in all of the rooms, I had managed to pick up a dashing young man (beer goggles?), and I say young as he was a second year. We danced the rest of the night away so hard that my bones ached the next day. 

My other adventurous/explicit events of the term included a life drawing class. I hadn’t drawn for many months, so I was somewhat nervous to attend. Having drawn for years, I thought myself above the giggling and snickering associated with a beginner that normally erupts when the model drops their robe. The nerves I felt were more about being able to produce something on the page that resembled a human body in some shape or form. Anyway, when this model dropped his robe I was overcome by shaking giggles – the worst kind to try and stifle but I did just manage to keep them under my breath – as my friend George said “Ah, I’ve heard about this guy. Shouldn’t take long to draw that, um, area.” All this aside, it was incredibly therapeutic to spend two hours sketching. You start with a mixture of five and ten minute poses and then progress onto half an hour and one forty five minute pose. My drawings weren’t too shabby, although I think I rather over did the added “sweeps of colour” to hide my terribly proportioned male body. But as they say, practise makes perfect, and if I’m not buried under a mound of work then I will definitely be going more.

Not only am I writing this column being evil-eyed by books, I am also sitting here in my gym kit after a run. Stop press – Miss Lippy joined the gym this term. Being someone who was always in the special group for games (this included being taken on walks, and synchronised swimming among other ordeals), and the only non-sporty member of my entire family, this was a huge step for me. Mainly, it provided me with the opportunity to buy a whole new set of clothes so as to look as good as possible while turning beetroot red and looking as though someone had poured a bucket of water over me. I have now tried several of the university’s classes, and try to go to the gym at least twice a week (madness). I would advise you to avoid BLT like the plague – I could not move for three days afterwards. Things reached a new low when I had to lower myself onto the loo seat, and my housemate’s boyfriend had to lift me off the kitchen table after I’d changed a light bulb as I simply could not bend. If you’ve just gone through a really bad break up I would recommend Boxercise, and if you want to pretend that you are living in LA and drink juice all the time, head to Pilates. However, he main benefits of the gym itself are that it is inside so in the middle of winter provides more shelter than Hyde Park and I get to watch music videos while I sweat; a worthwhile investment I think you’ll agree. I haven’t spotted any hotties in there yet, although I tend to avoid all eye contact with any human being when I’m in the gym as I normally come out looking like a drowned cat.

Now I’m at home, I don’t have the gym on hand, and it was a real effort to drag myself out on a run this morning. I realised with horror on getting through the front door that only one track had been played on my iPod, oops. Now on to getting very, very fat, drunk and merry, shopping in the sales, and dealing with the consequences when I get back to Leeds… 

(Me as a punk, obviously.)
Top & Skirt both ASOS, Choker Claire's, Fishnets Primarni + DIY, Wig Ebay.