An Eagle's Tale: The Art of Shopping

Weeks ago, when the unseasonably warm March weather put me in a shopping mood, I visited Sunflower in Highland Park. I needed a bit of retail therapy after endless months spent on the selling end of a cash register.

No matter how personal the touch might be, a cookie cutter national chain store in a large suburban shopping mall cannot possibly envelop you in its loving arms when you walk in the way a small boutique does. Granted, I have been to Sheridan Road in Highland Park more than a few times over the years, and have grown to expect a warm hug when I walk into Sunflower. But even my friends, the ones I drag there against their will for the first time, emerge feeling as if they are part of a new family. A nice family. A family with fantastic taste.

And so it was, a few weeks ago, when my two friends – Sunflower virgins – and I went on a little spring shopping spree. We are, the three of us, completely different from each other in size, shape, and temperament. We are, the three of us, a random sample of real women, women who have raised kids and worked (not to suggest that those two are mutually exclusive) and struggled sometimes to accept ourselves the way we are. We all have the fine, character lines – dare I say wrinkles? – to prove it. Sound familiar?

Three customers, three wildly different body types, a thousand different body hangups. Two fitting rooms. The racks, filled with colorful and, yes, rest assured, black garments beckoned us all. Tentatively, we each did some close examining of the merchandise, maybe even a little grabbing. Holding the enticing items up to the light, we all looked to our hosts, awaiting guidance.

The owner, Susie, and her sales associate, Mimi, did not disappoint. They never do. They sized up my friends in about three nanoseconds, processing enough information about their body types and temperaments to call immediately upon this gift they have – a sixth sense, really – of knowing exactly what to do. The fitting rooms filled up, pushing us out onto the sales floor – which seems more like a favorite friend’s parlor than anything – to finish buttoning and zipping and adjusting our various body parts. When you’re in your fifties, things just seem to stray. I found my left boob hovering near the floor when I bent over to slip on a pair of brightly colored skinny jeans. The folks at Sunflower seemed not to find that strange.

We each took several turns in front of the three way mirrors, and marveled at how good we looked. Transformed, somehow. We were all a bit skeptical. Maybe it was an optical illusion fueled by trick skinny mirrors. Susie assured us the mirrors in her store were accurate, that what we were seeing was absolutely real. I looked back and forth from the mirror to my friend. Hmm. Susie had a point. The “in the flesh” image and the reflection were remarkably the same.

My friends are hooked, and have already returned several times, bringing friends of their own. As for me, well let’s just say it’s become a bit of a habit for me, my visits to Sunflower. Beats drinking. No alcoholic haze, no alcohol induced brazenness, no hangover. Just lots of pretty new things, a brazenness to wear and to flaunt, inspired both by the realistic mirrors and the brutally Though I did blurt out an occasional “I love you guys,” I was not bullshitting. Stone cold sober, my professions of love and everlasting devotion were completely heartfelt.

My career as a retailer in a cookie cutter national chain store in a large suburban mall has come to an end, and the cookie cutter clothing I had amassed with my hefty discount has been pushed to the back of the closet. After all, I had to make room for all the new stuff.

Real women are unique. Their clothing – and the shopping experience that brings them together -- should be, as well.