From Malls to Monitors: The Evolution of an OCD and ADD Shopper
Once upon a time in the mid-2000s, in the quaint suburbs of Connecticut, the mall was the center of the universe.
It wasn’t just a place to shop; it was the grand stage for teenage social dynamics, romantic overtures, and the occasional Cold Stone Creamery ice cream binge.
Imagine this: riding your bike to the mall just to get a basketball pump pin from Dick's Sporting Goods.
Why? Because it meant extending your freedom from the high-level security watch of your mother for a few more glorious minutes.
The sweet taste of rebellion—also known as a Subway buffalo chicken $5 foot long (double meat double cheese if your friend from summer rec league basketball was working).
Let's talk about customer service in the heyday of malls.
I worked at Sunglass Hut, Lids, the perfume counter at Macy’s—you name it. It wasn’t just about clocking in and existing as a warm body on the floor. You had to hustle, make sales, and genuinely care about the customer’s experience. If you slacked off, you didn’t get a stern talking-to; you got a promotion—to customer.
Nowadays, walking into a store feels like playing a game of hide and seek. Need to find an item? Good luck. The staff looks like they’re starring in their own episode of “Survivor: Retail Edition,” and you’re the pesky contestant asking for a little bit of kindling for a fire to get you through the night. It got so bad I started asking three different staff members where something was just to triangulate the truth. If all three gave the same answer, I had a fighting chance of finding what I was looking for without needing a GPS.
Enter Amazon, the double-edged sword of modern convenience.
For someone with OCD and ADD, it's both a sanctuary and a potential rabbit hole of Indiana Jones magnitude exploration. For instance, I had long dreamed of a bathroom towel organizer that hangs over the door, with compartments for clothes, toiletries, maybe even a fake plant for that extra touch of The 1 Hotel Zen. I scoured Bed Bath & Beyond to no avail. Then came Amazon Prime, and my pupils dilated like a kid playing GTA IV when his mom was out grocery shopping when I found not one, but several versions of this Marie Kondo fever dream.
It was all gas, no brakes from there. A white marble-colored toilet tank topper? Check. A sleek sliding tin container for my Xyltiol Pur wintergreen gum I buy in bulk? Got it. Magnetic remote control holders? Yes, please. My home became a testament to efficient living; each purchase a victory over the chaos I once settled for in brick-and-mortar stores. And the reviews. Oh, the reviews. Reading them became a sport. You think you’re crazy? Scroll through the Amazon customer review section for some light reading on your next commute or bathroom time. It’s like the vindicating reassurance one strives for from therapy to know you’re not crazy but with star ratings and pictures.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a total cynic about physical stores.
Some places still get it right, where customer service feels like a warm hug rather than a cold shoulder. I make it a point to revisit these gems, partly out of nostalgia and partly out of a desperate need to believe that not all is lost in the world of retail. Plus, if you need an emergency outfit purchase, sometimes you just need to try on clothes for size and run the risk of a dust-induced sneezing attack (I’m looking at you, Zara).
So here’s to the Amazon-only diet.
It’s a wild ride, saving time, energy, and sanity. But if you’re prone to ADD and [productive] OCD obsessive tendencies, proceed with caution.
One minute, you’re buying a phone charger; the next, you’re knee-deep in 4-star reviews for a standing desk clamp-on side storage caddy.
It’s a slippery slope, my friends, but at least you’ll have the best-organized bathroom on the block.
