Without Counting the Change

My favorite poem is one by Denise Levertov called, "A Woman Alone." I read it in my sophomore English class as part of a unit on female confessional poets. We read Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and Levertov. My professor (Beth -- yes, I'm talking about Raper) suggested this poem was the reason that Denise didn't commit suicide. Well, not the poem itself, but the truth she expressed in it. As the name suggests, the poem is about the joy and comfort the woman finds in all the things she can do -- does do -- because she is single. One of those things is spending her time "without counting the change."

Now, I know that Levertov wasn't talking about literal change. But I went shopping on Monday night, and I realized I was spending my time without counting change. It's a nice feeling.

It was something of a shopping spree, I'll admit. I went out after work (6:30 is the magic hour if you want a seat on the subway) and headed across town. I hit up the Foreign Language Bookstore for some travel guides -- and where I found the new David Sedaris. Talk about a find! 

Then, I was off to the Gap. You've been hearing me go on about the Gap, and the lack thereof, for months now. Some of you hate the Gap and the American consumerism it represents. That's fine. But whatever model they use to make their pants has the same hips and waist that I do. Well -- not their skinny pants -- no model who wears cigarette pants looks like me. But the ones wearing boy cut, metro trousers, or flared jeans do. And I say God Bless the Gap for making pants the more Rubenesque among us can wear! Curvy girls need pants, too! (Hell, we need them more than the twigs do -- they can get away with wearing anything.) Well, the Gap in Beijing stocks way too many skinny jeans, but they do sell boy cut corduroy pants. Were the pants expensive? A bit. But not more than I'd pay in the U.S., and I didn't stop to consider just how expensive they were. 

Next up was a nice winter coat. There are all sorts of pretty cashmere, wool, or wool-substitute coats in fun reds and plaids all over the city. I started trying them on and immediately became my own parody of "Fat Girl in a Little Coat." Even the extra-larges were too small for my monster shoulders and arms. One nice clerk suggested I get a down jacket -- but I already have a Puffy, My Darling. I don't need another one. And then I saw a hat.

A beautiful hat. Let me back up. While in Vancouver one New Years, I found an awesome black fuzzy cloche. After five years of not wearing it, I just couldn't justify the cloche as part of my 100 pound baggage limit. Then winter in Beijing arrived, and I saw that not only did people wear hats, they wore fun, cool, and interesting hats. I've been searching for a replacement ever since. 

This hat is black and fuzzy, and while not a cloche, it is a fedora which is equally cool. I put it on and there it was. A perfect fit. Many (most?) hats look funny, but when they look good, they look good. And this one? Looks. Good.

In a previous life, I would have hemmed and hawed over the purchase. I would have checked the tag, set it down, and walked away. I would have wandered around the mall and looked for a coat. I would have gone back to the store and looked at it again. I would have weighed the cost of the hat against my need for the hat and the pleasure the hat would bring me. I'd compare the cost of the hat with the number of happy hour beers the same amount of money would purchase me.

I would, in a phrase, count the change.

Instead, I glanced at the price. Saw that it was more than I spend on wool for a hat, but not ridiculously so. And I bought it.

Heading back to the subway, I stopped in another store that appeared to specialize in coats. I tried on every coat in the store. As a last resort, I tried on a man's coat, and while the shoulders fit wonderfully, the hips were too small for me to button. I did fine one woman's coat that worked. It has slightly puffy sleeves, so it gives my arms and shoulders a little room. It's pulls ever so slightly around the chest, but I can button it. It, too, was too expensive. And I'll probably eventually search out a nice cashmere fabric and pay someone to make me one that really fits. For now, however, I can wash my puffy and/or dress up a bit. 

After this mini-spree, I went to the bank today. I withdrew a sizable hunk of cash, saw I still had a sizable hunk in the account, and transferred said hunk back to my U.S. account. That was an even better feeling than the shopping.

Well -- maybe not better than finding the hat. I do love hats.