Sport Shopping
According to her nametag, her name is Becky and there’s a nervous energy about her that makes me uncomfortable. I stand there smiling as she searches for the security tags in the pile of clothes that I am buying. She’s old enough to be retired, but I imagine a majority of her paycheck is consumed with her employee discount. I am positive on first glance that she would never invite me out for coffee or over for diner just based on my current wardrobe: yoga pants covered in dog hair combined with a shirt that is horribly out of date (not that I am sure about this, just typically I am horribly out of date).
She leans in close and starts to whisper, “You know in 2 weeks, this will be on SALE, half off. THEY always do that.” I look around for the THEY and then focus on staying engaged. She continues, “And all YOU have to do is bring in the sales receipt and I can give you money back.” She giggles even though I am not sure what exactly we are laughing about.
I notice that she has a very small earring on the side of her nose, just a spot of a diamond in the crevice of her left nostril. I look closer to see if she might have a tattoo to match; surely she debated over such a common trend, even at the age of 60+ it’s not out of the question. But I only notice the cat earrings that match the broche on her sweater. I am guessing they both match the buckle on her shoes; although I can’t see that far down past the counter.
She continues ringing up my pile of clothes, carefully and lovingly admiring each selection as if I need her approval. She cannot go on to the next item until she has commented with great oozing approval and then she has folded the item in the most meticulous manner. “Why this one,” she says in pure delight as she plucks a small bit of dust off one of my new sweaters, the most expensive purchase by far, “this one is just so perfect. I do hope this is for YOU because YOU will look absolutely darling in this.” She switches her voice down to a whisper again, “THEY will have to order more I am sure.”
I smile, a cheesy smile. She continues to whisper, as if we are now girlfriends gossiping about our neighbors. “Now dear, if you get a Macy’s card today, I bet it will save you an easy, oh $50. Wouldn’t that be just grand to get that money back?”
I wonder exactly how I can say no without sounding as if I am just stupid. I wrestle with the words in my head. “Well, ah, really, ah, I just hate credit cards.” (I am tempted to whisper back that “THEY won’t let me have any more cards because because they are all maxed out.”)
When we are done with the transactions, she carefully places my wonderfully folded clothes in a large crisp shopping bag with the receipt folded and centered on the top; the final icing on the cake. She walks around the counter as if we are going to walk out together. I look down at her shoes; and while they do not match her jewelry, they are of the exact same brown as her shirt. Impressive.
I am relieved when she hands me the bag in the most gracious manner and then walks back to serve the next customer. I can hear the shrill in her voice as she has now spotted “Betty”, a regular shopper for sure. And quickly Betty and Becky are busy oozing over the latest fall outfit by Ann Taylor, one of the few names I accidentally recognize. “This one will not last long.” I hear her say, ending in a combined giggle that almost chops off the end of the sentence.
Having survived the shopping experience, I happily wander back through the store, escaping out to fresh sunshine. Oh glory be, I can now continue on my day. And while I hike back to the car, I think of Becky; while she might not invite me over for diner or tea, I am sure I wouldn’t invite her to cycle up to Mt Bachelor either. She would never get out the door; the crisis of her bike not matching her shirt would be too overwhelming. How could we leave the house?
