Confessions of a shop-a-phobic

Like most guys, I break out in a cold sweat at the mere sight of a dressing room. I break down at the thought of a sale-crazed mob. Yet there came a time when I had to face the stores

For years I got away without shopping. Until I started school, and probably even later than that, I believed that whatever I needed could be found in an old trunk in the basement of our house. My mother would notice that my shirts no longer tucked into my pants or that my jeans were too short, and she would foray into the basement and bring out shirts of many colors, longer pants, and socks to match. As far as I knew, the basement was far playing Ping-Pong and finding clothes for me. Did it matter that these were clothes my brothers had outgrown? Did I care that they were second handme-downs by the time they got to me? Not a bit. And those occasions when I absolutely had to go shopping with my mother were fraught with misery even though all we bought were shoes.

Years passed in this way. By the time I was eight one of my brothers and I wore the same size, and since I was easy to please, my mother took him shopping for both of us. I liked everything she brought home; clothes were not high on my list of priorities. When I was out of something because I had forgotten to put my dirty stuff in the hamper, I borrowed from my brother. I liked that he was neat and always had clean clothes. My other brother, a teenage guy, went shopping on his own or with my father. When he started dating, I couldn't help but notice the way he dressed-spiffy V-neck sweaters, striped polo shirts, khaki pants. But his outfits never looked as comfortable as a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt. Maybe I would have clothes like that someday, , thought. Hopefully his, so they would feel old and soft.

One summer I was invited to a birthday party some girl was having. Suddenly everything changed. Mom checked out my closet and declared that I had nothing fit to wear: My jeans were worn-out or cut into shorts; my shirts left my wrists flapping in the breeze (isn't that why men roll up their sleeves?); of my seventeen sweatshirts, most of them inherited, Mom couldn't find a single one she liked!

I approached my older brother for a decent rugby shirt to borrow. "Dumb," he said. "lt's summer. Too hot." I pleaded with my older brother for a pair of jeans with creases, but they were too tight. He and I were still the same height, but he was leaner.

"Shopping," Mom said firmly. The word struck terror in my heart. Realizing I was too big to hide under the bed, I asked hopefully, "Nothing in the old trunk in the basement?" "We threw that trunk out two years ago." I told her to go without me. I promised I'd like anything she bought. But she was resolute.

"You're coming with me. Soon you'll wont to shop on your own. You need to learn about good cut, good fit, fabrics . . ."

I hadn't realized it was so complicated. "Mom, it's only a party. Maybe I won't go." I almost meant it when I said that.

We went shopping. On a sunny Saturday morning, as my friends were playing tennis, my mother took me to the stores. I began to feel like a freak when the third salesperson in a row stared in shock at my long arms and wide shoulders. I was ready to leave and never come back. All this shopping, all this talk, and we hadn't bought a thing.

When I turned around to tell my mother I was finished, she had disappeared. There seemed to be a commotion at one end of the store. People were hurrying in from all directions, pushing each other, shouting. A fire? An accident? I didn't hear any sirens. From where I stood, it resembled a wild West roundup. I walked toward the crowd. "What's happening?"

"A supersale on men's shirts and suits," someone shouted. "Hurry up!" The crowd surged and roared. Someone scratched me. I was trapped in this crazed mob, and there seemed no escape.

I could see hands reaching out toward a counter. Packages of shirts flew through the air. Had the whole place gone crazy? Someone shouted, "Give me that! I saw the blue one first!"

Well, having long arms was finally useful for something besides tennis. I caught a shirt, then another. One was cream, one blue. I looked over the heads of the people scrambling toward the counter and saw my mother. My five-foot four-inch, hundred pound mother was trying to push her way out of the group near the counter. Her arms were full of shirts. Hands grabbed at her as she tried to fight her way out.

Serious action was called for. "Mom!" I shouted above the noise. I've never played football, but I figured I'd better run some interference for her. I pushed through the crowd, grabbed the rest of the shirts from her, held them over my head, and plunged out with my mom in tow. Out-of-bounds I finally, she looked at me and started to laugh. "What do you call that play?" she asked.

"Fear, Mom. I was afraid for you. Those people are maniacs."

"Look what I found for you. The reason nothing fit was that we were in the wrong department-you need a man's size for your sleeve length. Your arms are longer than your brothers'. I guess was still thinking of you as the baby of the family. . ."

I tried everything on. She was right, of course. The shirts were great. Pants were a cinch to buy alter that. A new belt, some socks, new tennis shorts, a super dark-blue V-neck sweater. Even a new down vest that I decided I might not share with my brothers.

I can understand why most guys don't like shopping-a mob scene like that would unnerve anyone. It was years before I could see the humor in it. And like most guys, I could spend the rest of my life in old, worn jeans and sweatshirts so soft from washing they practically float away. The most comfortable clothes and shoes are well broken in. Sometimes it takes years.

On those rare occasions that I shop-I go to the same store twice a year-the salespeople see me coming and give me their best salesperson smiles but end up scratching their heads and calling for the store's tailor. My long arms, wide shoulders, and narrow middle require that all sport coats be tapered and all trousers taken in. But the tailor's smile never fades as he calls me by name and takes out his chalk to do surgery on everything I buy. He, at least, is happy that I've learned how to shop. It's still a major production for me, and I have to work myself up to it weeks in advance-which means I miss a lot of sales. But actually, missing those sales is just fine with me.

Source: Seventeen Magazine