I’ve just come back from a shopping excursion.
I don’t know what Paris Hilton buys when she goes on one of these jags, but I splurged on under-the-clothing-torso-region-support-wear and sensible shoes.
I’m guessing that Paris’ boutiques don’t end with the word “Mart,” but then again, my name doesn’t sound like a French city and my last name has nothing to do with the hospitality industry.
One thing that I did share in common with Paris on this trip is that I didn’t cart along any progeny, and for you mothers out there who haven’t figured this out yet, shopping’s a lot easier without the kids.
Have you ever thought of leaving them home next time?
Just joking — I know that you’ve thought, dreamed, ached, wished, hoped, aspired, coveted, and lusted — although that latter emotion is part of the reason why we lug small people around with us in the first place.
So I roam in splendid isolation through the intimate apparel section, grazing, picking up purple things and spotted things and stripes and flowers, which I know don’t work with white. As a concession, I toss in a boring beige and arrive outside the dressing room, but the attendant’s plastic number cards don’t go up to 13 and I have to leave some of the animal skins outside.
Actually, dressing “room” is a misnomer, since the try-on area is a free-standing series of boxes set up in the middle of the store, and while I’m in my rat cubicle, I hear a wail accompanied by a bump against the “wall” of my “room,” and I think,
“Dear God — this isn’t going to come crashing down around me while I am totally topless and trying to fit the straps back around the flimsy clear plastic hanger which just broke, is it?”
For some reason, I look up (was I praying aloud? Did the kid hear me?) and am comforted to see that the half-inch plywood barrier extends 10 feet in the air, but am baffled at a wire mesh screen that spans the top of the enclosure.
Is this to prevent kids — like the one whose sobs I can hear just way, way too close — from climbing the structure and tumbling down to the bodies below? Maybe I should have just bought socks.
Those chauvinist males out there who joke about how long it takes women to dress have never seen one re-attire herself in a panic in the middle of the Mart rat cubicle.
Thank God for that.
But I bagged my hooter loot, and in the rush of adrenaline that hits mothers when they’re able to buy themselves something, anything, I scooped up a cute piece of nightwear that balanced precisely between baby doll risque and flannel swathing and headed to the check stand, where I only had to wait 10 minutes for the person ahead of me to swipe and re-swipe his debit card before he decided to pay with cash, which he didn’t have enough of, so he had to trot out the debit card again.
And naturally the clerk was a 19-year-old male.
Poor guy. He tried to matter of factly find the bar codes embedded in substratums of wispy chiffonerie — leopard spots in diaphanous pink and tiger-striped transparent tiffany that clung to his skin and draped over his arms. I am so glad that I didn’t make a stop in the pharmacy section as well.
But, unlike the guy before me with nary a strip of lace, I was able to swipe my plastic card once, press the correct buttons, grab my shopping bags and sashay out to the car.
Just like Paris.