I went to TJ Maxx to buy myself a new yoga top, hoping to avoid the ever popular pose of forward flopping boob. This seemed like a small way to do something kind for myself, and surely my yoga class would thank me, too.

I don’t go shopping much. Mainly because I am trying to live more like a poet so I avoid places where poets aren’t hanging out – which is any place money hangs out. And clearly I am very out of practice. I had just walked in with my empty cart and — ooooooh – purses! Half hour later I snapped out of it just long enough to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, with a fringed and brightly colored coral bag over my shoulder – I looked like a tree stump with a tropical bird. A mortician with a parrot. A poet with a purse.

But something about it all – the quiet building frenzy of all the pretty things – I moved from one to the next, deep in focus as if the decision to choose the silk floral blouse over the linen floral blouse would determine the course of all of my days. As if I came for a floral blouse. As if I’d wear a floral blouse.

But removed from context of my own life, I’m pushing forward, aisle by aisle, item by item, size by size, making agonizing decisions and piling them in the cart, barely noticing the people around me, barely recognizing myself as I hold up a lace crop top, a racer back t, a pencil skirt, a ceramic peacock.

An hour in, my cart is full of sherbet colored silk scarves and wispy little tank tops and a million thread count sheets and strappy sandals and stemware and lingerie and hairspray and nautical throw pillows and crisp white slacks and jackets. Who did I think I was? Was I packing for a tropical cruise? Redesigning my carriage house for the summer season?

And hairspray?? Really?

An overflowing cart full of accidental wishes later, I left it all. I just walked out. I was exhausted, and stressed, and sweating. I had just pushed around someone else’s life for an hour, and what did I have to show for it? It took just one hour to forget who I was. To forget all about my flopping boobs, my empty wallet, and the fact that my idea of a hair style is to pile it up in a clump on the top of my head, resenting the 30 seconds it takes to do that.

There’s nothing wrong with shopping, of course. I vaguely remember the “money is no object fun” of it all. But even then, some authentic voice was strangled by spaghetti straps and high heels – by the woman I hardly know, and that I can’t seem to stop looking for.

At least this time, I remembered to leave her behind. And this time, I remembered to laugh.