I rarely go to the mall. I much prefer smaller, independent, funky stores, where I can find something unique and one of a kind. The mall is just way too much pressure. There are pasty Twilite characters standing watch over their kiosks and they descend upon you with their newest, greatest invention as you attempt to maneuver between giant 14-child-width-strollers and sticky pre-teens dripping in Cinnabon.
I don’t want any faux hair ponytails or sea salt hand wash or $120.00 hair straighteners. I only come to the mall for two things: The Wallflowers plug-ins at Bath and Body Works and Deliah’s jeans. Granted I could buy both online, but why pay shipping and handling when I don’t have to?
Also, I know Deliah’s is geared towards a much younger teenaged-girl crowd, but their jeans actually fit me and I am happy about that. They don’t look like “mom” jeans, they come in the right length and the boot cut is actually a boot cut and not a bell bottom.
So I make my way up to the store and just as I get through the first racks of sundresses, a young sales associate asks if she can help me find anything today. Easy enough, I point at the white denim and tell her I want them in a size 7 regular, boot cut. BAM! In my hands! She scurries off to assist another customer. I have been in the store 5 whole minutes, found exactly what I wanted and just as I wonder in the direction of the checkout counter, yet another young sales associate informs me that if I buy one pair, I get another pair half off. What size can I get you? Fine. I tell her the same request as the previous gal and she argues with me. Yes, she began to question my knowledge of my own body! She actually walked around me, sizing up my butt!
“Oh no”, she says, “you’re more like my size. 00.” I begin laughing hysterically! No dear. Not even close.
OK, I’ve had enough. I grab a second pair in 7 regular and run for the counter. Perhaps from now on the added expense of shipping and handling will be more worth it than the sheer embarrassment I just encountered. Damn kids.