I’ve over-done the retail therapy thing. I tell myself, everytime I buy a new pair of shoes I don’t really need, or a handbag that costs more than my daughter’s bi-annual kindy fees, that I’m treating myself. That I deserve a gift. That I work hard for my money and therefore I should be able to spend it in any way I want to. That makes me happy.
Does it really?
I don’t know. My BFF pointed out to me- I shop when I’m upset. I shop when things get difficult. I shop when I have an argument with Hubs, which of late, had been pretty frequent. (Thankfully, though, things are getting nice and peachy again these days, so I haven’t been shopping as much. ? Really?) She thinks the material possessions, the pretty things, the look and feel of a brand-new item in its shiny paper bag, makes me happy. I think she’s right.
I’m finally able to admit that I have a problem. I’m a shopaholic! And I may be worse than Becky of the ‘Shopaholic’ series fame by Sophie Kinsella. Hubs is ecstatic that I’ve finally admitted it. He thinks I need to go for some kind of counselling or therapy to get me to stop shopping.
Is there even such a thing? There’s alcohol rehab, drug rehab, sex addition rehab (think: David Duchovny, hehe). But I’d never heard of shopaholic rehab. At least not in Malaysia.