They say when women are depressed, they go shopping. And not just the pansy-ass lunch break window browsing. They buy stuff. I once had a friend endure an atrocious, heart wrenching breakup and spend five hundred dollars at the local Target. No one can say exactly what she bought, but plastic bags suffocated our kitchen floor for weeks. Shopping when depressed is cathartic. Unlike relationships – which, at least for the socially functional you cannot buy – stores present an infinite amount of things begging you to choose them. "Pick me and I'll give you cleavage," a shirt might plead; "If it doesn't need a plate, the calories don't count," says a box of chocolates. And then all you have to do is toss the chosen item in the cart. No questions, no strings; simply hand your card to the cashier, and you are free to walk with your newest friend into the sunset. There are no talks about where this walk may lead. No concerns that you may be walking too quickly.
I pride myself in knowing that I don't fall for such tricks. Last spring, I bought a complete outfit off of a mannequin because I needed clothes for a golf tournament, not because my grandmother, Beep, was terminally ill. And a few weeks later, when I walked past a pet store (Parrots ‘n Pups, which I’ve since learned is an awful place) during my lunch break and casually bought a puppy, I did that because I'd been planning on buying a puppy for months, not because Beep had passed on a few days before. Of course by naming said puppy Beep, that claim went out the window, but my friends and family gave me a few weeks to entertain the charade.
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