Whoever said you can't buy happiness doesn't know where to go shopping.

Yesterday it seemed a good idea to go shopping. Four shirts, two minidresses, a pair of jeans, and four hours later, I left the mall, satisfied with my findings. As I secured my bags in the passenger seat of my car (I tend to do that when I'm so excited about a new outfit that it may strike me as I drive to seize the bag and pull out an article of clothing so that I may envision myself wearing it, as was the case of an adorbale chiffon dress I found yesterday at Macy's), the question of why I -and most women- find such satisfation out of spending money at the mall came to mind.

It's certainly a stereotype, and while not all women love to shop, for a large percentage shopping is the ultimate relaxation. There's nothing better than a good deal on a cute pair of shoes, a certain friend of mine likes to say. Perhaps this logic is the reason why, despite the fact that women only make 78 cents for every dollar a man makes, they make 80% of buying decisions in all homes. After all, as the saying goes, men buy, and women shop.

I've done a bit of research and considered several opinions on why the former is true. Perhaps women love to shop because it's a basic instinct of anything female to gather. However, this theory seems a little off when put into context, in saying that a woman adds to her closet the same way a bird adds a piece of string to her nest. Another theory is that women shop because it is what they are "programmed" to do, the same way little girls play with Barbies and little boys are given Tonka firetrucks. I don't think this idea is dead-on though, either, considering shopping in general is not as pleasurable as shopping for ourselves. Which brings me to my own theory, all others considered, of why nothing feels as good as seeing a pair of skinny jeans on sale.

I think we love to shop because we cling to the hope that material items will enhance our status and attractiveness. I know it's at least true for me; just the other night I was watching an episode of Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels and noticed a scoop-neck tunic that Arkansas firecracker Kelsey was sporting. I need that top, I thought to myself as I studied the sequened neckline. If it looks that good on her, it'll look better on me. And so the first thoughts of my quest at the mall were born.

It doesn't seem too far-fetched to think that the general idea of women at the mall is that if we can find that perfect shade of lipstick (Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Pur Shine in Pink Diamond is my poison) or that adorable curve hugging strapless dress, we will transform into goddesses- men will fall in heaps at our Jimmy Choo adorned feet, our bosses will promote us, our enemies will bite the bullet and be forced to ask where, oh where did you find that chic belt?

The media (and I use that term lightly; I am, after all, a journalism major) has long perpetuated the idea that a woman's success in life is closely tied with her appearance, not to mention the amount of money she spends on that appearance. And so we march down the aisles of Coach, Macy's, and Bloomingdale's, our credit cards out like weapons, certain the next Luis Vuitton bag we purchase will ultimately transform us into beauty queens. It's consumerism. It's relaxation. It's vanity.

And even those things considered don't stop us from selecting that perfect Juicy Coture fragrance, swiping those credit cards,and buying, buying, buying.