The Perils of Shopping

I almost didn't write this post. I figured I had already expressed my dislike for shopping enough. But after a recent trip to the mall, I felt another Ode to the Salesperson was in order. If I were going to rank my grievances, somehow "trying on endless piles of clothes" and "dealing with crowds of coupon-wielding soccer moms" still fall short to "an overemployed overzealous staff". These garment-pushers drain my patience more quickly than anyone I've ever encountered.

I'll start at the very beginning. ("A very good place to start"). On this particular day, I was on the hunt for some new shorts. After twenty minutes of searching the racks, I had managed to filter out a few candidates from the masses of ripped, acid-washed, butt-peeking variety. Any hope that I would actually leave with a pair of somewhat-dignified, properly-fitted shorts was squandered when I reached the dressing rooms and found an empty counter and a sign: "DRESSING ROOMS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE". I see. So I'm supposed to just hold up each garment and visualize myself in it? Perfect. I left my jean orphans on a rack of bikini tops and got out of there. But not before stopping in the grocery section and picking up a pint of greek yogurt. I figured if my search for shorts had failed, the least I could do was bring home some protein.

Five minutes later, I had my yogurt buckled in on the passenger side and we were on our way home. (Kidding.) On a whim, I decided to swing a left and stop by the mall for a last-ditch attempt at some summer duds. This made me nervous because I didn't want my newly-purchased yogurt to spoil in the 95-degree car. The plan I formed was to run in a side exit, quickly scope out a few of the nearest stores, then hightail it out of there.

 What could go wrong?

I set my shorts radar on high and proceeded at a break-neck pace through three or four clothing stores. I looked like one of those grannies with one-pound hand weights power walking past your house at dawn. I would stride in, down some aisles, and back out of the store without stopping. All I could think was "Yogurt. I've got yogurt. There's yogurt." Nothing on the racks was catching my eye, so I didn't even need to slow down. This version of Speed Window Shopping was actually saving me from dealing with the aforementioned  bane of my existence  saleswomen. By the time they took a breath to start their spiel, I was just a memory.

My streak of good luck ended when I reached American Eagle. From thirty feet away, I could see the staff members pacing just inside the window. Sharks waiting for fresh meat. That was almost enough to send me running for the hills. Or, more accurately, my rapidly-warming yogurt. I could practically feel its expiration date moving closer and closer to yesterday.

 But my desire for new shorts superceded my desire to be left alone. So I took a breath and stepped through the threshold. I literally counted "3....2....1...." in my head. Before I hit 2, the blondie closest to me has swarmed in and stopped me cold in my tracks.

"Hey! Just so you know, we're having a big sale on our summer line. All the shorts are buy-one-get-one-half-off. And the tank tops over there are up to 40% off."

Okay, let's call you Stephanie. First of all, Steph, I didn't hear most of the words you just said. I haven't got much time. All I heard was "yogurtyogurtyogurt  summer line  yogurtyogurt  40% off." Secondly, the fact that your  pointless drivel  sales pitch - for once - was entirely relevant to my shopping needs and I still resent you is a testament to how much I want to be left alone right now. Lastly, are you having a big sale on your summer line? It's 90 degrees outside. I was hoping to find some deals on parkas.

I politely smiled, thanked her, and moved forward on my quest for shorts. I thought of the pint of dairy riding shotgun and quickened the pace. I rifled through their selection, picking five or six different sizes of five or six different styles. Who the hell knows? I had now enjoyed two whole minutes of blissful me time, but now here comes Steve. (That was probably his name.)

"Hey there! Can I help you find a size? Do you need any help with anything?"

In an attempt to banish him away, I chose the ever-popular response: "No, thanks. Just lookin'." What would make you think I needed help with sizes? I'm only trying on one of every item in stock. Now shoo.

Now, unfortunately, American Eagle is one of the many stores that employs Keepers of the Dressing Room to guard what I can only assume are stalls filled with diamonds and bars of gold. I figured I'd ask Stephanie for a key since we were already BFFs. Unfortunately, my beeline to Steph was cut off by Employee #3. We'll call him Arthur.

"Hey! Just wanted to let you know that shorts are buy-one-get-one-half-off and all these tank tops here are like 30 and 40% off. We're having a huge sale on our-"

Summer line, I know. Thanks, Artie. I'm on board.

"Just let me know if you need any help or a different size," Steph told me as she permitted me temporary access to one of her coveted dressing rooms, "And don't forget! The shorts are buy-one-get-one-half-off!"

Shut up! They ARE?!

Cut to me ten minutes later, bringing 53 pairs of shorts back to the rack. The 54th pair I tried on actually fit (praise Allah) so now I really need to get out of this place. As I'm shoving all these hangers back on random racks, a blonde figure materializes in my peripheral vision. STEPHANIE!

"How did we make out? Did we do alright in there?"

We? Were you in there with me? Cause if "me" really was a "we", you already be in the know. For the love of God, go FOLD SOMETHING.

I practically ran to the checkout counter. I passed Steve on the way, who asked if I was finding everything I was looking for. (No, I was looking to be left alone.) Arthur checked me out and offered me a store credit card. (No. I'll never come back again.) Then Steffy - I swear to God - reminded me about the buy-one-get-one-half-off sale one more time. (I know I only got one pair of shorts, but I don't have time to find its companion. Damn you, woman. Think of the YOGURT.)