I’m not a big shopper. Weekly trips to the Co-op and monthly trips to a local thrift shop generally take care of food and clothing needs. I buy books and gifts online. I would certainly never buy clothes that I couldn’t try on first.
Unless I’m delirious with the flu. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
In late January, I’d been fighting a nasty cold/flu for weeks. Scrolling social media, I saw an ad featuring the cutest dresses at great prices. It should have occurred to me that one reason the dresses looked so cute was that they hung from cute bodies. I would also have done well to notice that the photos were all exactly the same—the model’s face not showing, her hair and pose identical. Like a paper doll, only her clothing changed. Perhaps the special “Buy two, get one free” offer blinded me to all the warning signs.
“Why not order three cute dresses?” my foggy right brain asked my groggy left. I had an event coming up, provided I recovered in time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d purchased a new dress. (Later it came to me. Just last summer. In my delirium, it felt like decades.) So in an uncharacteristic moment of wild abandon, I ordered three cute dresses.
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| Photo from Canva |
Weeks went by. My event was long past and the credit card bill paid before the package arrived. I opened it eagerly but skeptically, now that my fever had subsided. My optimism grew when the cute dresses looked good in their packages. All three were labeled the same size I’d ordered. (None of your business.)
I tried on my favorite. It was much too tight, among other things. Thin fabric, weird shape. I should have assumed the other two would fit the same way and returned them all right then. I didn’t.
The second one fit, but the color looked ghastly on me.
The third one hung like a flour sack, but the fabric was so darn pretty.
I wanted those dresses to work in the worst way. I did not want the hassle of returning them to Singapore or wherever they were manufactured. Besides, how could I trust the company to refund my money when they couldn’t even make three same-size dresses the same size?
So far, I’ve offered the too-small dress to one sister and two friends. It’s not working for anybody. The other two hang in my closet, begging the question: “Will she or won’t she?”
I am experiencing what’s commonly known as Buyer’s Remorse.
On the other hand, Cheapskate’s Regret might feel even worse, even if not commonly known. In fact, I think I made it up.
Back around 1980 when Hubby was a university student and we were broker than the ten commandments, I attended a Tupperware party. I really wanted the celery keeper. We always had celery in our fridge. My mother loved hers. Alas, the price was beyond our budget. I settled for a smaller version, one that never quite holds a full celery stalk, so I’ve always needed to leave a few ribs out to use first.
The other day I realized that little plastic box has served us for over 40 years. Half the time, the lid isn’t even properly sealed because it’s too full. I can’t count the times I have wished I’d sprung for the full-size box, but somehow I never obtained one. Although this one owes me nothing, it keeps doing its job, rarely leaving our fridge except for the occasional wash and refill.
I know what you’re thinking. I should return the cute dresses and spring for more Tupperware.
Maybe I will.
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