Occasionally I get an over whelming desire to shop at factory outlets. I imagine running around with armfuls of boutique bags, sipping an enormous Starbucks latte, with a dazzling smile like the girls on the ads with repetitive jingles. Unfortunately, my outlet experiences are never quite so peachy.
The unfinished floors, damaged clothing, bargain bins containing unidentifiable chunks of fabric and that feeling that the sales assistants are actually spirits of former retail workers destined to serve in the hell of consumerism for all eternity, all send me running for the door. But these feelings do not last long, and in the months between my visits my brain erases the emotional pain that outlet shopping invariably produces.
Once these memories have receded, my brain is free to sing all the merry tunes of Outlet Land and off I skip on my fantasy shopping spree. Seconds after I walk in the door the repressed memories come flooding back and after purchasing mandatory Bonds supplies, I find myself back in my car and speeding towards the nearest mall to find clothes that are stitched all the way to edges and are not inspired by the Russian Olympic ice skating team of 1989.