Pardon Me While I Undress

I’m strengthening on my abs and glutes.

I have friends who say “let’s go shopping,” as if they’re inviting me to a Broadway show. Maybe because my mother and I rarely agreed on what was “pretty,” I’ve never been enthusiastic about an activity that involves looking in windows, walking from store to store, and rifling through merchandise. I find the traipsing and the trying-on exhausting.

I have practical concerns as well. The more you have, the more you have to keep clean, put away, pack and, if your suitcase is too heavy, the more you pay for and, possibly, risk back injury.

I have an ideological grudge against shopping, too. It’s the ultimate consumer sport. We try our luck at the game and accumulate what George Carlin famously called “stuff,” only to find we have too much. Birds get rid of feathers; we “molt,” too — we get rid of possessions.

Marie Kondo, the decluttering guru, suggests we keep only that which gives us joy. Which raises the question: Why buy it in the first place?

Age confers wisdom when it come to stuff. When I sold the house I’d lived in for 29 years and mentioned that I might put cartons of books, knick-knacks, and furniture in storage “for later,” Marge, then 101, scared me straight.

“What do you think you’re gonna do…” she asked, “go visit it?”

Girding My Loins for Shopping

These days, I shop — or so I think — only when I really need something. But the mind can play tricks. For example, my recent foray into the French department store, BHV (pronounced, “bay-ahsh-vay”) was inspired by the upcoming Bar Mitzvah of my third grandson.

Yes, I still have what I wore to his two older brothers’ celebrations — the “outfit” being leather pants with a cool, slightly glittery top. My inner Hip Granny dresses me.

I also know that no one (except my daughter who helped me shop both times) will remember what I wore.

Still, I convinced myself to at least look for something new and girded my loins for the journey. Imagine my surprise when the “new” I discover turns out to be an exercise regimen.

Shopping Zumba

Admittedly, une cabine d’essayage at BHV is an unlikely place to get in shape. It’s smaller than most stall showers. No stool or chair, no shelf for my phone, just two hooks on the right wall. And yet, trying on clothing in that tiny cubicle has all the elements of well-orchestrated fitness routine.

To try Shopping Zumba, you might have to be a little like me: over 50 and someone who doesn’t like to exercise. I also prefer what were once called “peg-legged” pants — “matchstick,” if you shop now at J. Crew. This style, as you will see, adds an extra challenge to Shopping Zumba.

In the cabine and desperate for my stuff not to touch the rarely-mopped floor, I hang my jacket, scarf, purse and small tote bag on one of the hooks. On the other, I stack hangers with tops and — God help me — the pants I intend to try on.

And this is how the Shopping Zumba routine goes…

Squat and balance (to remove shoes). I am now grateful for the minimal room and it’s mostly unadorned walls. The better to lean on. Note to self: At home, remove and wash these socks immediately.

Stretch (arms up to remove the tee-shirt and roll shoulders). This greases the joints and limbers my shoulder, arm and back muscles. Easy, it’s a good warm-up.

Push down (arms bent and strong, holding pants at the waist). As I push, I take care to engage my core muscles. Don’t want to overtax my back.

Bend forward and touch toes (reaching toward the floor, shimmying the jeans toward my mid-thigh area). Again, I watch those back muscles.

Reach (toward the ankles and grab pant hem). This part of the routine is particularly arduous because of the aforementioned matchstick legs. When I undressed as a kid, I simply unbuckled my belt, unzipped or unbuttoned, and my pants fell to the ground. All I had to do was step out. Likewise, in the 60s, I could remove bell-bottomed jeans without breaking a sweat. (Yeah, I know they’re back, but they are not flattering to a 5'2" frame.)

Pull and balance (as you remove the first pant leg). Again, I am relieved that the three unobstructed walls of the fitting room are never too far away. I must hop on one foot, bend the opposite leg, and yank on the pant hem of the other.

Straighten up and stand tall (on two feet without teetering).

Breathe (and find my center before continuing). My jeans are off one leg and bunched up on the other.

Lift (the opposite leg). Repeat the pull-and-balance sequence to finally get the jeans fully off.

At this point, I’m in my underwear, hoping that the heavy canvas curtains don’t part for all of Paris to see me half-undressed — another fantasy fueled by the illusion that someone would actually care to look!

I’m already spent and feel like I’ve broken a sweat. Still, Shopping Zumba class is far from over. I still have 125 pairs of skinny jeans to try on and take off — not to mention several tops with built-in bras that will add additional stretching to the routine. To try them on, I must first reach both hands around my back to remove my own bra!

Repeat the entire sequence as needed — stretching, pushing, balancing, bending, pulling, lifting each item I try on. Add kvetching, and I promise: It’s just like gym class.

The Takeaway…If There Is One

Full disclosure: Even though I only brought a dozen or so articles of clothing into the fitting room, the on-and-off process — punctuated by occasional peek-ins by the saleswoman — made the whole torturous session seem like I tried on 125 items.

Why did you do this to yourself? my inner Hip Granny coos into my ear. You’re fine as you are. Have you taken none of my well-earned confidence.

Besides, this isn’t your party!

As fitness activities go, I’m about as much a fan of exercise as I am of shopping. My spirit is unwilling and my body aches — owing in no small part to my resistance which makes everything worse. The difference is that you ultimately feel better after exercising (or so I am told). Shopping just makes me tired.

Possible solutions:

• Listen to inner Hip Granny. She’s the voice cheering me on to a great elderhood — one different from youth but no less fulfilling.
• Get in better shape, so shopping isn’t hazardous. I have to at least keep trying. I know what’s good for me.
• Reread this piece next time I decide I “need” something new.

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