I have a confession, and honestly, it’s not even a dramatic one, just painfully predictable. I am an emotional shopper. A textbook case. A walking, talking, mall‑wandering cliché. I shop when I’m upset, overwhelmed, annoyed, bored, or when the weather looks at me the wrong way.
I’ve tried to stop this habit. I’ve given myself speeches, pep talks, promises, even a few threats. And for a while, I actually behaved. I stayed away from malls like they were toxic exes. I convinced myself I didn’t need anything. I even believed it… until today.
Today, I relapsed.
I couldn’t hold it together anymore, so I did what any emotionally unstable shopaholic would do: I went to the mall. With absolutely no plan, no list, no reason. I told myself I’d buy a couple of formal outfits for work, you know, something sensible, something practical, something that would make me feel like a functioning adult.
Spoiler: I found nothing.
Nothing felt right.
Nothing sparked joy.
Nothing whispered “take me home.”
But the problem was… I had to buy something. My emotional stability depended on it. So I did what any desperate person would do, I called my sister and asked if she wanted anything. When she said yes, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Finally, a purpose. A mission. A socially acceptable purchase.
I got her what she needed, but then I stood there thinking, This can’t be it. This can’t be the only thing I buy. I came all the way here. I suffered the mall lighting. I walked through the heat. I deserve more.
And that’s when the real relapse happened.
Because right now, Kuwait weather is aggressively hot. Winter is months away. No sane person is buying winter clothes. Which is exactly why I did.
Two winter hoodies.
Two matching pants.
Zero logic.
Maximum joy.
The moment I tried them on and they fit perfectly… I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time. That tiny spark. That ridiculous, indescribable happiness that only shopaholics understand. The “this makes no sense but I love it” feeling. The “I shouldn’t have done this but I’m so glad I did” rush.
I missed that feeling.
And yes, I admit it: it’s an addiction. A soft, cozy, hoodie‑shaped addiction. But at least this time, my relapse came with matching pants.
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