I was expecting to enjoy the process more than I did, but rather found myself quickly frustrated. Not by the crowds, for they weren’t that wild, but by the high proportion of business clothes that had been fashioned for Goliath sized men*. Poor Nico was in tow to carry things and alert me when I was beginning to resemble a character from Glengarry Glen Ross. I realise that I probably didn’t accurately show my gratitude as I bounced off the bottom of the escalator and loudly declared, “these clothes are made for man giants!”, nor when I poked my head above the racks and announced “I feel like I’m in Gulliver’s Travels… but one of the little ones.”

The hardest thing part was (of course) letting go of the money. I’m a long-time op-shopper and I’ve snapped some incredible bargains in my time. Even when I splurged on a fancy vintage shirt I loved in Melbourne a few months back, it only set me back $20, but I realised I was going to have to spend money. Real money**. My coping mechanism was to simply close my eyes and forget the money. I figured even though the tide was receding, I could expect it to my lapping at my ankles shortly (if not knee-deep).

We walked and shopped for hours before my energy and enthusiasm quickly wintered and I declared it was time to go home. In the end I came away with a suit, three shirts, a pair of pants, three ties, a belt, a cautious opinion of capitalism and a significantly altered self image.

* Perhaps some skew here as I am mildly petite.

** I came to this conclusion after recalling two childhood experiences; one where I tried to use Monopoly money as tender, and the other when I renounced capitalism and decided I didn’t agree that the checkout lady ought to control ownership of the Batman figurine. Both brought me admonishment.