Originally published by Harper’s Bazaar
Since I’m a fashion professional and fanatic, you might be surprised to learn that I don’t love to “shop”. Yes, I love getting dressed—the escapism and the physical expression—but when it comes to deciding what clothes and accessories to buy myself, I get decision fatigue. I instantly want to sit down. I feel constrained and distracted by the (toxic) feeling and endless curiosity that there might be more to discover elsewhere. Why be out in the world wandering aisles when I could be in my apartment, comfortably scrolling for a specific early 2000s-era Dries Van Noten collection?
However, on a trip home to Maine last holiday season, I realized there is one exception to my in-store aversions, and it has nothing to do with fashion: I love to go grocery shopping with my mom. When the moment comes to untangle herself from our big, bustling family of six and head to the local Hannaford supermarket, I always volunteer to join. Sure, the grandchild-free moment of peace is divine, and having my mom’s undivided attention is rare (I’m a middle child after all!), but as I trailed her on that most recent expedition, I paused to wonder: why was I so compelled to wander the very aisles I vehemently avoid in New York City?
I braced myself for the sense of agita that usually settles in any shopping environment, be it one with shelves piled with sweaters or cereal. But as my eyes adjusted to the aggressive fluorescent lighting, I felt… fine? My mom pulled out a yellow-lined piece of paper with her list diligently written in voluminous cursive, handwriting as familiar to me as a hug. It was divided not only by category, but by menu: “Night before Thanksgiving dinner: lasagna. Produce: roma tomatoes, oregano, basil.” A woman hosting four adult children and five grandchildren? Of course, she had a plan.
My mom was organized and not risking losing everything in her iPhone’s notes app if it suddenly lost its charge. The outing, regardless of the shopping destination, is always strategic, legible, and decisive. I smiled and realized that so much of who she was, of what she’s taught me about life and how to procure the most beloved pieces in my wardrobe, were evident on this shopping expedition.
When we approached the produce section, she swats my hand from the blueberries. “We’ll get that at the farm stand. I point dumbly to the “Pies” portion of the list. She explains (for the 200th time) that it is better, both environmentally and economically, to procure native produce directly. It hasn’t been sitting in a truck that has been driven across the country. The food isn’t being pumped full of chemicals to be preserved in that process, and we’ll invest in Maine farms to support the local economy. I peered at the stack of blueberry cartons, suddenly aware of how bulbous and unnatural they looked. I stared at my mom with admiration at how she moved through the world, someone whose thoughtfulness and decisiveness befits the greatest breed of fashion editor, someone who knows what she wants and exactly how to get it. I realized with sharp focus,thisis why I loved joining her.
The first memory I have of shopping with my mom was not for tomatoes and blueberries, but for Easter dresses; I couldn’t have been more than 5 years old. She loved dressing my sisters and me alike, and that year it was overblown Laura Ashley florals with matching hats. Apparently, I had an awkwardly enormous head as a child, because none of the kids’ hats would fit. I knew enough to know this was embarrassing, but before it got further than the flush in my cheeks, my Mom crouched down: “Lucky you. Looks like you’re getting a grown-up hat.” I followed her to the increasingly more glamorous women’s hat department, shame transforming to smug satisfaction that my sisters were stuck with the baby hats. It was the sweet, thoughtful pivot to buying me something different and new that turned an errand into an adventure (and a sartorially formative one!). I was happy, and her vision of our sweet, snappy holiday portrait remained intact.
We continued to weave through the grocery store. In the bread aisle, we slowed to a stop to study the assortment: “Now where is that sourdough your sister likes….” Baffled, I couldn’t believe she had clocked and recalled a specific preference of one of my adult siblings. But she devoted that attention to all of us. And then I recalled my brother’s smile when a niche beer magically appears in the refrigerator or the delighted squeals of my nieces when a specific fruit gummy they love is revealed. I vowed to open my eyes and file details accordingly.
The shopping with my mom continued that day, as did the lessons—never explicit but exquisitely deliberate. She redirected a lost shopper to the sardine aisle (an exchange I would have avoided at all costs). She gasped at the good fortune of a specialty item still in stock, her enthusiasm easily accessible and unapologetic. My mom bopped a little to the beat of the soft rock supermarket soundtrack. Moments of joy, no matter how small or seemingly inconvenient, are to be savored.
As the trip concluded and we wound our way to the registers, my mom pulled out cloth shopping bags, never once assuming this small gesture wouldn’t make an ecological difference, eschewing convenience over personal responsibility.
She greeted the cashier and asked about their holiday plans, her face tilting toward the sunshine of human connection, smiling warmly and listening intently. In contrast, all around us, necks angled downward, hands gripping phones, quiet armor against even a moment of discomfort. I was brought back to a moment in March, while joining friends at Chanel on Rue Cambon in Paris to ogle the first delivery of Matthieu Blazy’s work. Instead of joining in the joyful shopping pandemonium, I felt paralyzed by choice, intimidated by the focus of fellow shoppers. Instead, I sat nervously clutching my phone, overwhelmed despite the beauty around me. I realized what a missed opportunity that was to simply join in the fun.
I understood in that moment with my mom that my approach to shopping has always been wrong: transactional, distracted, steeped in urgency, and anticipated dissatisfaction. It turns out a simple afternoon at the grocery store was the fresh parental imprint I needed, and everything I needed to know was on plain display as I watched her shop. Bearing witness to my mother’s daily practice of small gestures that add up to a big, stunning portrait of generosity, curiosity, responsibility, and love. I left vowing to be open, easily delighted, and flush with great pride. I think I’ll take myself shopping this weekend.
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