Heaven, I Call You Saks Fifth Avenue

Today, I was in heaven–or at least close. I was on Fifth Avenue in New York City, where the free enterprise system is alive and well and where a shopaholic can get a serious fix. I’m not a shopaholic, of course, but every shop window tempted me with the sweet Siren song of glittering gems. On Diamond Alley it was as though every star in the sky had fallen into that little corner of the world–just for me. Of course, I was happy, but there was more to it than that. I was also affected physically. I was having a rush!

But I’m a rational person (most of the time), so I took a deep breath, stepped back from the windows, and asked myself, why do I love this so much. And then there was the corollary question, why does my husband, Michael, who was standing right beside me on this sacred ground looking as though he were standing in line for his passport to Hades.

The answer is clear. Dopamine: that little chemical released in the brain that plays a big role in our ability to experience pleasure. It also plays a big role in addiction. Too much of it and we can become addicted to the thing that elicits the pleasurable response. Sex, drugs, fast food, and, yes, shopping.

Saks, Tiffany’s, Macy’s, Prada–these are dopamine machines. They turn it on with lights, music, colors, scents, textures, and friendly salespeople who only want us to be happy. Ever notice the difference in your shopping urge between the dollar store and Neiman Marcus? The more upscale the store, the more they will have mastered the fine art of dopamine injection.

Biologically, women are wired to shop. Add to that the fact that women often spend much of their lives in the service mode at work and at home. For many of us, it is our in our natures to always be doing for others. But here in heaven–I mean, New York City–I’m the queen and this city was built for the sole purpose of serving me! In every store I enter, I hear those dopamine-inducing words, “May I help YOU?” You want to help ME? Have at it! As I float from store to store on 5th, 6th, 7th, Broadway, 42nd Street, I hope my husband is taking notes. In Saks, the attendant told me I was pretty. At Angel’s Jewelers, she wanted me to be part of their family. At Tiffany’s the doorman wanted ME to have a good day. Even at the Loran Deli where I had a real hot pastrami sandwich, the Asian woman who served us thought I was beautiful and told my husband that I was not “ordinary.” Are these dopamine pushers diabolical or what?

So who wouldn’t love shopping? Oh, yes, I forgot–my husband and millions of other men just like him–men with insufficient supplies of dopamine. My husband’s idea of a big shopping trip is taking his Christmas money out to buy new socks. Even then, I see the slight glint of dopamatic pleasure in his eyes, that is until he sees the price tag. “Six dollars for a pair of socks? No, way!”

No dopamine!

After seven hours of walking those golden streets of heaven, I sank down (only momentarily) on a bench in Anthropologie. I quickly observed that we dopaminers outnumbered our less fortunates by six to one. We looked happy, alive, energized. We walked briskly, sometimes towing a man in our wake. The men generally had a vacant look in their eyes, that same look my husband gets whenever I can entice him to follow me into a jewelry, shoe, or clothing store.
But the women! Even I was amazed at all the touching. We touch everything, running our hands over silk scarves, wool sweaters, cotton blouses, and nylon tights. I watched as a teenage girl walked past a rack full of tights, letting her hand caress them as she passed. But then, she stopped, turned back to those spectacular grey tights, and called her girlfriend over to share the experience with her. Then they walked on, never having had any intention of buying tights. Perhaps the vibes between the tights and girls were not right, perhaps their stars did not align.

Is that why we touch everything in sight? Are we waiting for that spiritual connection that calls unmistakably to us, “Purchase me! I am your tights. Fate wove me just for you.”

My husband doesn’t get it. He says there is something wrong with me. But, ah ha! Drop a box of old baseball cards in his lap and watch his eyes sparkle and the fondling begin. And when he tries to draw me into his joy, watch my eyes go vacant. I say, “No way!”

No endorphins!

So we have agreed that we don’t understand each other, and we’re okay with that. He follows me into stores and even tries to look interested–sometimes. He does it because he loves me, not shopping. And when he gets excited about a 1958 Ted Williams card, I think about having him committed.

As I said earlier, I’m a rational person, so I have learned the indispensible art of window shopping. I can shop for hours and buy nothing. For me it’s not the kill but the stalking that thrills me. Some dopaminers are not so rational. They are hooked on the purchase. For them and their vacant-eyed men folk, I suggest they snuggle up on the sofa (with a giant bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream and a brownie) and watch Confessions of Shopaholic. It will do you both good.