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As God is my witness, I'll never go to the mall again. Strong words coming from someone for whom shopping has been sport and religion, pastime and passion. It wasn't just the hunt that excited me -- or the capture. I got separate, strong thrills from each.
Once upon a time malls and megastores, with their infinite variety and swarms of humanity, made me feel like Charlie in Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. And Christmas shopping used to be the ne plus ultra. The glittering displays, festive decor, and bustling crowds pushed the joy of shopping to a whole new level. But this year, it's the Net or nothing for me -- or more accurately, for the folks on my Christmas list.
Any doubts about how I might Christmas-shop were erased by my trip to a Manhattan mini-mall over Columbus Day weekend. It was a beautiful Sunday, meaning people should have been playing Frisbee in Central Park or enjoying their last outdoor brunch until May. I hate Frisbee and brunch, so I thought Sunday morning would be an ideal time to go get a new bath mat and do early reconnaissance work for Christmas.
CHECK IT OUT. My final stop was a home-accessories store whose vastness is overwhelming, even to this native New Yorker who finds other cities' amenities Lilliputian by comparison. A salesclerk directed me to the bath section, which might as well have been in New Jersey. As I battled the swarms of shoppers in my quest for this faraway land, I found several items that I had forgotten I desperately needed. When I couldn't carry anything else, I tried to find the checkout. Ten minutes of fruitless searching left me utterly disoriented, but then I was lucky enough to find a salesperson. I asked if checkout was to the right or the left. "Yes," he said.
"Yes, which -- left or right?" I asked. He looked at me, shrugged, and walked away. Let's hear it for customer service, I thought as I trudged through the teeming masses. I eventually stumbled upon the checkout area, and my heart sank. Each of the 12 registers had at least 15 people on line (yes, I had plenty of time to count -- twice).
The only thing that stopped me from putting my would-be purchases on the floor and bolting was the horrible realization that I would just have to do this all over again. After a 20-minute wait, I paid and escaped. When I got home, I realized that I had forgotten to get a bath mat.
GET A JOB. But at least the home store was staffed. At the discount store I had visited earlier in the day, three-quarters of its cash registers stood unmanned, and the lines were even longer. Instead of announcing juicy deals, the PA systems kept on urging shoppers to apply for "well-paying" jobs. If these stores were crowded and impossible now, what would they be like at Christmas?
Shuddering like Scrooge at the prospect of Christmas to come, a profound change came over me. I would buy online, even though it can seem time-consuming, impersonal, and vaguely dissatisfying to a real shopper.
I've shopped on the Net with mixed results. I've had some great Internet shopping experiences. A determined customer-service rep at Bluefly went to the warehouse to track down a jacket that showed up in the inventory online but couldn't be located. (A belated thank you, Emily.)
But then there was the electric gravy boat incident. In 1998, I ordered one from a well-known retailer. It arrived in time for the holiday -- if you consider Groundhog Day a holiday.
NEW YORK MOXIE. In 1999, the same site was the only place I could find adjustable sheepskin slippers. I desperately wanted them for my dad, so I took my chances. I ordered a good three weeks before Christmas and paid extra for express delivery. It took seven phone calls and a combination of hysteria, begging, and pure New York moxie to get the slippers by Christmas. Three pairs (I had only ordered one) showed up at my parents' house on Christmas Eve. Both years, these snafus were blamed on various computer-system glitches.
Despite these mishaps, you can bet your bottom dollar I would order from this site again. It has the unusual items that seem to be the only things my parents want, and I have to believe it's seeking to improve fulfillment, especially with the critical Christmas season looming. But most of all, I would shop there -- or at any other Web site -- because it means I don't have to go to a store.
Even though the Internet is basically the world's biggest mall and largest catalog, you can control the experience. When you've had enough, you log off. Maybe your eyes are tired or your mouse hand hurts, but at least your feet won't ache from standing in line, and your arms won't be sore from lugging too many heavy packages.
RARE FINDS. The other great advantage to Internet shopping is you can do it at odd hours. Can't sleep? No compelling infomercials to watch? Go to your favorite site or ask a search engine about a specific item, and suddenly you're making good use of time that would otherwise be spent tossing and turning or mindlessly clicking through TV channels.
And as many phone calls as I had to make regarding the slippers, the effort was worth it. Short of getting them custom-made, I never would have been able to find a pair anywhere else. Visits to a dozen stores in Manhattan yielded nothing. An hour of Internet time was far less strenuous.
Will the Internet ultimately be able to satisfy my shopping jones? Probably not completely. I can still imagine going to small boutiques that don't overwhelm me and where the chance for personal service is greater than a snowball's in hell. At flea markets and antique shops, the unusual, funky, or endearing will scream out my name. People-watching? I live in Manhattan -- I can get a healthy dose at the corner deli. My infusion of Christmas spirit will just have to come from It's a Wonderful Life and Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol.
The holidays won't be quite the same, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice. I'll be leaving behind the aggravation of overstocked, understaffed, too-crowded stores. And if I find myself in the awkward position of receiving a gift from someone for whom I have nothing in return, I can always tell them that thanks to some computer glitch, my favorite Web shop sent the wrong item -- and the replacement ought to be here by Groundhog Day.
When not shopping, Patricia O'Connell edits for Business Week Online. She plans to order a bath mat on the Web Edited by Beth Belton
Copyright 2000, by The McGraw-Hill Companies Inc. All rights reserved.
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