Lost A

Tag: emotional-shopping

  • Carb Is Love, Carb Is Life, and I’m Back

    Carb Is Love, Carb Is Life, and I’m Back

    Let’s get one thing straight: carb is love, carb is life.
    Anyone who says otherwise is clearly living a joyless existence powered by sadness and air.

    Yesterday, the shopaholic version of me, the one who swipes her card like it’s a form of self‑care, made a glorious comeback. And what did she find? Two divine pieces of clothing that looked at me and said, “We get you.” Not because they define me, but because they understand my priorities: carbs first, logic later.

    Exhibit A: The T‑Shirt of Truth

    A croissant in red heels, holding a coffee mug like it’s late for brunch. Underneath it? The word “ESSENTIAL.”
    Because obviously.
    Croissants are not optional. They are oxygen with layers. They are therapy disguised as pastry. They are the reason mornings exist.

    Exhibit B: The Pajama of Power

    A white pajama set with the words “pastry club.”
    Now, don’t get it twisted, pastry club isn’t for everyone. It’s exclusive. It’s elite. It’s the kind of club where entry requires emotional devotion to carbs. Once you’re out, you’re out for life. No second chances. No “I’ll just have one bite.” You either live for carbs or you don’t deserve the croissant.

    So yes, I bought them both. Because carbs deserve representation.
    Because fashion should be flaky.
    Because I’m not just wearing clothes, I’m wearing a manifesto.

    And honestly? Life’s too short to pretend lettuce is exciting.
    Carbs are the main character.
    Carbs are the plot twist.
    Carbs are the reason I’m smiling while holding shopping bags like trophies.

  • Confessions of a relapsed shopaholic

    Confessions of a relapsed shopaholic

    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.