Shopmares

This time of year with the crowds, the snotty-nosed children, the hysteria and the animatron Santas, I am grateful that most shopping can be done with a click of the mouse from the comfort of my living room. I don't have to shower or put on a bra and I don't have to stand there at the cash register having every drop of polite leak from my ears as a well-meaning but slow as molasses clerk takes ten minutes to carefully remove hangers, fold and bag my purchases while regaling me with insipid tales of her personal life. I'm okay with a little chit chat but holy mother of God, I don't care that your boyfriend lost his job and now the two of you have agreed to give each other lover's coupon books full of vouchers for hugs and kisses and massages for Christmas. I don't want to be rude but please, shut up and give me my receipt so I can go home and take off my bra.

This holiday season, I probably did 80% of my shopping online although last weekend, I was forced to head out to try to find something to wear to my staff party Saturday night.

I wanted to add a splash of colour to my outfit because I was sick of basic black. I wear it EVERY YEAR.

Because it's slimming.

I started off shopping at one of those places where you can find last year's designer clothing at significantly discounted prices. Working in my line of business has forever ruined me in respect to fashion. I've been in scads of apparel factories in China and India. I know exactly what it costs to make a garment and there is no way I will ever pay full retail for anything ever again, no matter whose name graces the label. So on Saturday afternoon, there I was, among the masses, methodically combing through the racks looking for something appropriate to wear.

The first thing that made me crazy was the incessant Christmas music. It wasn't that pleasant instrumental stuff that lulls one to sleep. It was the old fashioned Bob Hope Christmas Special stuff full of corny, pun-filled dialogue and punctuated with Dolly Parton-like high pitched squeals. The only available dressing room was one parked directly underneath a speaker. After trying on about sixteen items, I was slightly homicidal.

Then, there were the people. They were everywhere. And frenzied. And hopelessly rude. I stood at a clearance rack methodically going through every garment in my size when a woman REACHED OVER MY SHOULDER to pull out a lemon yellow hoodie with a flourescent pink "Juicy" splashed across the chest. In her haste to leave my personal space, she yanked the thing back and the zipper got caught in my hair. I yelped, then spun around and the look I gave her must have been unsettling because she let go, eyes wide and made a beeline in the other direction. I was left there, head tilted to the side, trying to dislodge the zipper from my head.

After that, I left, because I had an overwhelming urge to scream like a banshee and was worried that I wouldn't be able to control my bladder if I did. (For the men, have your wife explain that to you)

My next stop was at a store recommended by a colleague. I had always avoided it because it had a retirement community feel but I was desperate. As soon as I walked in the door, I was greeted by a couple of associates even though the sales floor was packed full of people. That impressed me. I immediately spied a blouse in a gorgeous blue colour that I though might work. I found my size and walked around looking for a pair of black pants because the five hundred others that are hanging in my closet just weren't special enough for the occasion. A saleslady approached me, asked my name and started a dressing room for me.

Then all hell broke loose.

I found a few more items and made my way to the back of the store to try everything on. The first blue shirt had this queer pleating in the back which made me look like a rooster. Saleslady#1 agreed and left to find some alternative choices. In the meantime, saleslady#2, who was folding sweaters in the back and overheard our conversation, made her way over and suggested something different. She then went off to get my size. Salesladies #3 and #4 came on the scene then, listened to what I was trying to accomplish and set out as well. There were at least four people at any given time behaving like my very own personal shoppers. I must have tried on fifteen outfits.

The salesladies were fantastic. Their customer service was so refreshing. It made me feel special.

The trouble was, their suggestions would have been more appropriate for um......a more mature lady.

Like my grandmother.

One lady proposed a pair of pants with a crisp white blouse and a sleeveless, thigh length VEST. And pearls. I looked at her, panicked, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't hurt her feelings. On her, the outfit would have looked very chic. On me, more Rhoda Morgenstern and not in her cute, perky stage, if you know what I mean. At the end of at least an hour, I walked out of there with a pair of black velvet pants, a black velvet camisole and a red cardigan with a black, faux fur, detachable collar. I was miserable, especially in light of the fact that I'd dropped over $200 and looked like I ought to be shopping for a walker.

Feeling unsettled with my purchases, I stumbled into the store across the street and within two minutes, I'd found an age appropriate BLACK top, which paired nicely with my geriatric BLACK pants. At the party that night, in spite of the fact that I was in yet another black getup, I was content.

Now, I just have to figure out a way to return that freaking awful cardigan and camisole number. After all of the time and effort of those salesladies to try to get me squared away for the party, I feel terrible. I'm thinking the trip might require a wig and thick sunglasses. Or better yet, I think I'll send Dallas to do the dirty work. They'll absolutely FAWN all over him with that Kiwi accent.

Should be a win-win for all, right?