Under the Influence

I haven’t stopped shopping online since Black Friday. First it was the Christmas shopping. Then it was Christmas returns and exchanges. Of course, I couldn’t ignore the post-Christmas sales. And the January sales, which are not the same as post-Christmas sales. Now the Presidents Day sales are looming.

All I do is shop online.

I wish I didn’t have to buy everything online, but where is a normal person with a normal life and a normal income supposed to shop in the Village of East Hampton? Valentino, Chanel, Prada, Gucci or Louis Vuitton? The only places in my price range are the hardware store and Stop & Shop. My options are either doormats or $4-per-pound rotisserie chickens.

To the internet I must go.

Shopping online is a crapshoot. I probably return more than half of my orders. We have a fully stocked shipping department that makes returns easier here at Hockey International. I like to think of our household as a multinational corporation; I’m head of procurement, shipping and humor writing. Mr. Hockey oversees golf, hockey and hockey.

Returning online purchases has gotten more complicated. Some websites hide the return section in the fine print at the bottom of the page. Some are nosy and ask a zillion questions. They expect a 500-word essay about their unsuitable products.

Since I’m head of humor writing here at Hockey International, I try to write pithy responses. Last week, I returned a dress stating, “I should have remembered that guava is not my color. What was I even thinking?”

I end all these responses with “What was I even thinking?” Because what was I even thinking?

Guava isn’t a good color for anyone.

Conversely, if I do keep something, I’ll be inundated with emails from the seller: “Hey gurrrl, how’d you like that swimsuit? You wanna fill out a survey? You wanna buy another one? We’ll give you points!”

Is there anyone needier than online retailers? They are worse than the Democrats were before the election.

The hardest thing to buy for oneself is a bathing suit. I shouldn’t have to relive the trauma by answering a survey. I should just be able to tamp down my body image feelings until they explode into a rant in this column.

It hasn’t helped that I’ve recently had to buy a completely new wardrobe. I’ve gone up a dress size. I’ve had to purchase new coats, dresses, bottoms, tops. Even new Underoos!

Although I’ve made no changes to my caloric input and output, in the past few months my body has stockpiled every nutrient I’ve consumed into my butt and boobs.

I don’t know why my metabolism suddenly quit. It’s as if my body — an entity over which I’ve never had any control — senses oncoming danger. Should I heed the warning? Should I hoard $4-per-pound rotisserie chickens? If so, can I freeze them?

My disproportionately enhanced butt and boobs meant I had to get new ski clothes — Hockey International has an offsite in Montana next month. An Australian company that manufactures curvy women’s ski outfits appeared on my Instagram. Australia is known for skiing, so why not give them a try?

The website asked if my body was apple-shaped or pear-shaped. I’m at a loss here. If I’m being honest, it’s probably guava-shaped.

A ton of ads pop up on my social media. Their persistence is exhausting. Social media influencers and advertisers do what mothers do when they need to get their toddlers to eat veggies: They show them the turnips repeatedly. Eventually, the recurring turnips wear the toddler down, and she buys the bra.

My shopping white whale is a cheap, pretty dress. I dream of going to a wedding in a $65 dress.

It’s not a pipe dream. Once, years ago, I bought a long dress for $39.99 from a random website. Before the shutdown of my metabolism, it was nice enough to wear to a significant birthday party for Mr. Hockey.

The magical, all-knowing algorithm knows about my dress quest and is constantly serving them to me on my phone. They’ll advertise a dress as one of “Oprah’s favorite things,” a phrase that is an upper middle-aged woman’s Kryptonite.

To not be overpowered by the shopping urge, I won’t buy anything on my phone. Instead, I send myself the link and look at the item on my computer later, when a cooler head can prevail. My brain — an entity over which I’ve never had any control — knows that a $46 dress from some random Chinese website won’t fit properly, won’t be returnable, and won’t be flame retardant, but sometimes I buy it anyway.

Sometimes I think with my wallet instead of my head. Because this dress could be “the one.” As a shopping Captain Ahab, I’m compelled to shoot the harpoon.

Unlike Captain Ahab, my quest won’t cause me to die in a sea of online dreck for the sake of a cheap pretty dress. Though I’m the daughter of a long line of Ahabs, also known as Loehmann’s shoppers, I know my white whale probably doesn’t exist. I may have to pay more for a decent wedding outfit.

Unless … I find something at the Nordstrom half yearly sale! Ahoy matey!

Hockey International’s Montana offsite couldn’t come at a better time. I can’t shop the Presidents Day sales while careening down a mountain in my guava-shaped ski outfit.

Good. My credit card needs a rest.