Obviously there are worse things to worry about, but actually, that kind of shopping doesn’t make me nervous, though when it does, this goes through my mind:

“I thought I had everything and now I need to do this again!”

“Do I even know what I want? They probably don’t sell that anymore. Where should I go? I’m tired already, I don’t want to go anywhere. Where do I even start? That other outfit doesn’t feel like ME. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO.”

“Everyone else looks so goal-oriented and purposeful. Where did that girl find that top? Why didn’t I see it? Her pile of clothes looks so much better than mine. I bet she can tell what I’m thinking. Why is it so crowded in here? I want to leave and I’m not even finished. Maybe some telepathic sarcasm will help, how about this?”

“Oh, God, I will not get out of not trying this on, because if I buy it and it doesn’t fit, I will have to come back here, and I don’t want to come back, I’m barely dealing as it is. When did this become my current reality? I have to go to the changing room. I don’t want to go to the changing room. There’s a line. There’s loud shouts of the ever classic, “Does my butt look big in this?” from behind partly open curtains. There’s endless standing in socks in front of the full-length mirror at the end of the hall, tags danling everywhere. There’s long-suffering boyfriends and husbands not quite knowing what to say and still valiantly trying to say something. It’s A MESS. Go to the changing room?”

“Three different assistants have asked me if I they could help me. I need to get out of here right now.”