Zara: Where paychecks go to die


I went into Zara while shopping with a friend yesterday after she told me she had never been in there and really liked a skirt in the window. Now, I knew this was a bad idea before I even pulled open the door and walked into the magic dream castle of moderately priced chic-dom that is Zara and I knew this because I have no shopping self control. We’re talking zero, zip, notta. Here’s the process that always takes place: I usually go into a store with a set amount I’ll tell myself I’m allowed to spend and repeat the amount in my head over and over for about 30 seconds. Next, I’ll start perusing the racks and tell myself I’m way too big to be wearing crop tops with shorts that might as well be underwear so that section is out. Yay, I’ve eliminated! After about 5 minutes though, I’ll start thinking I’ll never know if those clothing articles aren’t for me if I never try so I rationalize by saying that there’s nothing wrong with trying them on and that doesn’t mean I have to buy them. While in the dressing room, I’ll remind myself of my limit as I start to try on the ten items I’ve selected (thank you Zara for having a limit). So first I try on the boyfriend jeans that they didn’t have in my size but maybe I could squeeze into them. Alas, they don’t fit. Awesome, one thing down. Maybe the rest of the things won’t fit either. BUT THEN things take a turn for the worst and everything else DOES fit and it all looks fabulous and I’ll never find anything like it ever ever again. For some miraculous reason these crop tops look amazing and those teeny tiny shorts make my ass look like Rosie Huntington-Whiteley’s. My brain starts freaking out and reminding me of my budget, all the while I’m fighting it with thoughts like, “But what if I see a girl out in the beautiful white textured mini skirt that I left sitting there all alone in the vast sea of clothes that needed to be put back on the shelves? I would never forgive myself.” So here’s where the feeling in my stomach I get every time I walk into a store and know that all of this could be mine with the swipe of one card takes over my thoughts and I black out. The next thing I know, I’m walking down the streets of New York knocking old ladies over with my ten bags full of blazers, skirts, skorts, crop tops, and random gold leaf headpieces I’ll wear everyday and love and cherish until the day I die. As a result of yesterday’s shopping conquests, I’m literally banned from Zara and every other store in this city for that matter. Dear girls who hate shopping, teach me your ways. Zara, I’ll continue my love/hate relationship with you in the mean time.

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