It was another weekend of self-debate. The week passes by beautifully, being swamped by work, datelines and not seeing a shop sight. Saturday rolls around and plans for coffee, a movie or errands will involve a mall and my chance of a clean break looks as far away as my Dior sunglasses can see.

It all started in university. I was away from home for the first time. It was my first bank account. My first credit card. My first overdraft. UK shopping lured me with all its big sales. There was the Boxing Day sale, Christmas sale, Summer sale and so on. Weekends were spent shopping with my new credit facilities and it was thrilling. I’d read UK Glamour, spot something I like and go straight to the store. It carried on for three years with me collecting an enviable wardrobe that had my Malaysian girlfriends writhing with jealousy. Then, it was time to return home.

Returning to KL, getting a job as a fresh graduate and having no such thing as an overdraft started to get a bit tricky. By then, my addiction for all things Vogue was full blown. I continued to indulge. In a mall, my body basked in its fluorescent lights. Stepping into in, my stomach did acrobatic moves just thinking of my next great find. My eyes, like trained agents surveyed every skirt, bag and shoe in sight and my brain altered to “Shop mode,” processed rows of clothes with military precision. Five years of shopping has taught me the art of scanning. My fingers can run through hangers at lightning speed, never missing a single potential buy.

I do not have a limit. Stories, or fables as I would like to think they are, of people not buying clothes because they have too much baffle me. It is beyond my comprehension. Every new top could go with an old bottom. Heck, it might even deserve a new bottom!

My ultimate weakness? Shoes. For security reasons, I cannot disclose how many I own. I might be sought after for whatever unnecessary bills some corporation or another seems to insist on being paid. I buy shoes because I love them. I love the fact that they attract as much attention as they do. I love that my feet will never grow fat and depress me. I love that they detract from an old (yes, I do sometimes notice the personal contradiction) outfit and I love that delirious rush they give me when I slip them on. However, I recently went down the road of product abuse. Last week, I bought my first pair of “Runaway” shoes. I was running away from a bad week and nothing was helping. I don’t really remember the exact details other than driving to a mall and making a beeline for my favourite shoe shop. I walked in, did my usual bullet lap but nothing was giving me that familiar tingle which happens at the sight of beautiful shoes. Yet, like something out of a bad scene where the soap star rummages for a drink and pours it down her mouth, I marched over to the nearest decent looking pair and paid for them. True enough, like a bad hangover, I only saw it in all its ugliness the next morning.

I have to admit it was a moment of clarity when I identified my possible addiction. I was gung-ho about taking a fresh look at life and start living for the birds, flowers and whatever else self help books prescribe. I was pondering about how hard that really was as I walked into KLCC this Saturday. Then again, those inch stilettos from Nine West? That’s an over the counter prescription.

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