W.I.N.O.S

I admit it. I am a wino. Oh, not that kind. Actually, W.I.N.O.S. is an acronym. Now there are those that know me that would attest that I fit the other description for wino, but that is another story.
The W.I.N.O.S. I am referring to stands for Women In Need Of Shopping. I guess both types of winos would be considered an addiction, but at least with shopping the residual effects are not quite as bad....meaning no hangover involved. Oh maybe a possible headache that accompanies potential buyers remorse. Or getting home and finding out that the fantastic outfit you bought doesn’t look nearly as good as it did under the shocking florescent lights of the dressing room. But that headache has a much easier remedy that involves saving your receipt and returning the merchandise. No Advil needed.
Shopping, in its' true state, is quite similar to a sport. Depending on the circumstances it's a combo of horse racing, hockey and football. Of course there aren’t any referees, and unfortunately no safety gear is used. It can be a contact sport at times, and is definitely one that can be an “at your own risk” type of game. Especially when there is a huge sale involved.
I like to think am a very courteous shopper. I don't push, shove, pull or grab. I don't yell. But others do. Trust me. Take for instance around Valentine’s Day. Usually in mid-February, Christmas is but a memory and people are shopping for cruise clothing, Valentine’s Day surprises and even an outfit or two to get them through spring fever. Mid-February also means that the Christmas decorations have been marked down so low the store will pay you to take them home. Normally, this means the decorations are ones that you would never consider purchasing. But when marked down to 90% off the original price, all of a sudden beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and bargain shoppers get a little bit nasty. Last week I had an encounter with one such shopper. I was glancing at an ornament that looked like it involved two dogs of an unknown or as of yet undiscovered breed juggling candy canes. It was dated 2008. As I was looking it over, pondering what kind of person would care to buy such a thing - even at the marked down price of 80 cents – a woman snatched it right out of my hands. That’s all it took. My adrenaline kicked in and the game was on. Oh, it didn’t matter if the candy cane had been chipped and the dogs looked like they had rabies. I needed that ornament. In hindsight, I suppose I didn’t handle myself in the ladylike manner I should have, because the store manager escorted the two of us out to our cars. The other woman gleefully smiled as she climbed into her car, believing she “won” because she had acquired the larger half of the dog ornament. Seems I got the last laugh, however. As she leaned in her car to put her packages away, the other half of the ornament, the black dog with a scary face, smiled at me from the back folds of her winter coat. As far as I know, no medical help was needed to remove it.
Yes, shopping is a sport. I can get just as high (finding the perfect dress) or low (in two sizes too small) as someone carrying a football over the goal line. Just like the other type of winos, I know there is a 12-step program for shop-a-holics. However, since admitting the problem is the first step, I won’t be joining either one in the near future. As with everything, there is a fine line between “want” and “need”. For now, I choose to go with the mantra of my heroes, Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble: “Charge It!”