There was a wedding.  I had to wear grown up clothes.  I hate grown up clothes.

I had the dress. (Yes, I really own a dress.) I had to buy shoes. I bought shoes, and I didn’t wear them…I’ll be returning the shoes.

I had to have a belt. Well, thank god I didn’t go buy a belt, because I didn’t wear one.  But I did have to buy a black ‘cardigan’, which is just an expensive way of saying sweater with buttons.

The cardigan became the target of a drive-by shopping.  First, we drove past Marshall’s, then we walked by Old Navy, but, my resistance being weakened, I was sucked into Macy’s.

I, was able to avoid the tentacles of retail madness, by walking up to the first sweater I saw, took it off the display walked to the ….err,  cashier? attendant? waitress? oh…salesperson, and said, “I need one of these.  In a large.”  She replied (and here, she became my hero), “You’re in petites, I’ll take you to the other display where you’ll find the correct size.”

She walked me across the way, to a table with six sizes of sweaters in two styles and three colors.   My head is starting to hurt, my stomach is starting to turn.  She says, “Here’s the black in a large.  Would you like a shell to go with that?” Apparently the blank look on  my face was sufficient for her to hold up a matching tank top (Shell: Expensive tank top, got it.).  “No, no. I’m fine. …Don’t need it in blue or green either, but thank you.”  I said.  Followed by, “Thank you for showing me these, you really rock.” At which point my companion rolled his eyes, and pretended not to know me.  But the lady understood.  Here I stand in jeans, high tops, and an over-sized dress shirt, asking about cardigans, and looking like a deer in the headlights.  Or like a calf at a new gate.  Or both.

She showed me the counter, and a nice gentleman waited on me.  “Do you need the shell that goes with this?” “Nope. Don’t need the other colors either.  Thank you though.”  Credit card. Sign. Receipt (“In the bag please.”) Out the door.  Total time?  Let’s just say I waited longer for my appetizer at the Roadhouse.

Now, I have to take the shoes back…sigh.  The very thought of being shoved back into the sucking quagmire of retail footware.  Maybe next week.

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