It takes about 15 minutes of mall shopping before I feel the effects of sensory overload, and by then it's too late -- I can't find my way out. Grabbing a paperback I have no intention of reading or a tape I don't want to hear, I toss my sacrificial money to the evil mall god.

Only then will I be able to see past the neon frozen yogurt sign, the craft cart where a man blows molten glass into cunning miniature elephants or the While-U-Wait earpiercing booth to the EXIT signs.

"Whew, that was close," I gasp when safely in the car.

"Didn't we go there because you needed a new pair of jeans?" asks my pal Gloria.

"Are you kidding? I can't take it. All those people. All those lights. All that customer service," I answered, shuddering.

I am a surly shopper. I want to be left alone to finger the merchandise. I don't want help. I don't want some chirpy teenager asking personal questions about my waist size. I don't want anyone asking what exactly I'm looking for.

I'm looking for something to make me look spectacular. And it better be cheap.

I don't like the person I become in a shopping mall. When I snarl, "Just leave me alone" to a young sales assistant, I can see I've hurt her feelings by the way she snaps her gum and answers, "Whatever."

It isn't my genetic makeup that makes me uncomfortable and rude.

It's because I come from a large family, where hand-me-downs were coin of the realm, that I never learned to shop for entertainment. It's something you do only when your shoes' soles have disconnected or you need a white blouse for a job interview.

Thanksgiving Day weekend I spend on the couch eating leftovers. New Year's Day I spend on the couch reading the newspaper -- annually surprised to find this the best day of the year to buy sheets. And Memorial Day weekend I've been known to do the unthinkable and actually visit the cemetery with a few flowers.

When I was a kid, besides the hand-me-downs from relatives came the bundles of clothing from other families. We might find, when stepping outside for the morning paper, that someone had left boxes of clothes on the front porch, as if our home had become the drop-off point for a church rummage sale.

Although we delighted in our windfall, not knowing from where or from whom the largess came gave us a pinch of unease when dressing for school.

A navy sweater or pair of jeans could have come from anywhere, but putting on a distinctive outfit like the magenta-and-orange plaid jumper invited recognition by its previous owner and certain social death to us.

I was intentionally vague when asked by fashion snobs, "Where did you get your outfit?" I had already noted the exchanged smirks when one poor soul admitted that her dress had come from the Ward's catalog. There was no way I'd admit I'd found my dress in a Hefty bag on my front porch last Saturday morning.

I wasn't fooling anyone. There's something suspicious about a girl who won't tell where she bought her clothes.

"It's probably handmade," they sneered.

It's no wonder I lost patience and turned to secondhand stores, embracing what's now the cool retro look.

The musty smell of old shoes and damp wool was perfume to me. I roamed Portland's used clothing stores where customer service didn't exist.

"Whaddya want?" gnarled women growled when I entered the store.

Happy to be ignored, I snapped up horsehide bomber jackets for a dollar and 50-cent chiffon gowns. Besides being able to dress like a lunatic for less than 5 bucks, I found far better quality than could be had anywhere else in town.

My mother sighed and agreed that, yes, those tuxedo pants would quite probably last forever.

It's rare, now, that I dress like a lunatic. But I've passed my passion on to my children.

"Pretty sharp, huh, Mom?" my oldest son asks as he models an acetate shirt with an eye-popping pattern.

"What do you think?" my daughter asks as she struts in what looks to me like old men's pajamas.

I daren't say a word. They've seen pictures of me in chiffon gowns and bomber jackets.