askyermom

Not that many years ago, I ventured into Bergdorf’s in New York City as a tourist. I’m fairly certain I was just looking for a bathroom because that is always my primary objective as a tourist. It was a very disquieting experience, like visiting a museum of things forever outside my budget. Actually, that describes all museums. We are offered the chance to gawk for free at so many museums, as our only chance to behold the wonders of large largesse.

Honestly, I don’t yearn for jewel encrusted what-nots, so it’s not unpleasant, but there is a deep sense of being out of place in expensive retail spaces, like being a supremely sloppy adult in Disney World.

As department stores for average people become extinct or are reborn as a big box DIY grabarama, I am rarely nostalgic for them. It always felt like a trap to me. You go in wanting gloves and come out with perfume for your grandma or shoes you will only wear once before regretting.

Are we nostalgic for the experience of feeling flooded with possibilities? Is it just the ache of bygone times when we didn’t know how messy life really is? Do we miss the sense of being consumed as we consume? Why does spending with no reasoning feel like a reward? Buying a random lipstick in a dubious color just because it’s your birthday next week is actually deranged if you really think about it.

My nostalgia lands squarely on the wonder of the old Nordstrom Ladies Lounge. They had a bathroom you could find reliably clean, welcoming sofas to nestle in while you waited for your slowest children to pee. To me, it felt like an oasis of old civility that deserves its own museum space.

My shopping in later life has taken on a more purposeful feeling, although I am not yet beyond the random lipstick fiascos. More often, I am replacing lost items from childhood and obtaining things I have always wanted, just to see how it feels. Buying a Raggedy Ann doll was comforting, but only for about a day.

When I was very young and still had my original Raggedy Ann, I dreamed of having my own little cottage in the woods. In my mind, it was a fairy tale space where I had my books and my garden and the resident cats and birds were friendly to me and each other. I thought it would be cool if the cats could talk to me, but I have changed my opinion on that in the intervening years. Even clever cats are insane and their conversation would be just awful–nothing but murder and indigestion.

So now, I have my little house near the woods and didn’t even recognize I had arrived at my tiny childhood ambition until years after I got here.

Realizing that the things I always wanted aren’t at any store is very freeing, especially with a very low budget. What I want now is a clear view of the moon, some health, peace, just enough community to do some good, and occasionally to have someone tell me, lovingly, when I’m full of shit.

I guess, theoretically, talking cats could handle that part.

Love,
yermom

My book, not a cookbook, Don’t Eat Your Children is available at most retailers for mail order. Try this one: Bookshop.org. If you liked it, please review it and give it to a friend in need!!