Generally speaking, I consider myself a pretty laid back, agreeable person. I go into a store, I make a selection and I pay for it. I don't try to create a distraction so that my co-conspirators can come in and steal the merchandise, I don't present expired coupons and I don't tell the salespeople my dreams. And all I expect in return is to be rung up, and given the shit I just paid for in a bag, with my receipt and a "thank you." And the receipt is not strictly mandatory.
I hate shopping at Victoria's Secret because of their hard sell. The only way that I will ever set foot in Victoria's Secret again is if I'm dismembered and someone flings my foot into their store. Because to walk in there is to subject yourself to some kind of torture-mortification that most people flee continents to avoid. And are pretty much guaranteed to receive asylum in their new country.
"You need a new bra," a bra pusher told me as I was looking through the robe section.
"I'm fine, thanks."
"What you're wearing doesn't fit you."
"I'm fine, thanks."
"It's too small. It pushes your breasts up so that you look like you have three breasts."
Ok. I defy anyone to walk away from a salesperson who tells you that. It cannot be done. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure if stockbrokers called their customers and said "you look like you have three breasts, but some stock!" we could get the Dow up right now, financial crisis solved.
"What do you mean, I have three breasts?"
"Well, you're a C cup, but you're wearing a B. So the scrunched up part in the middle makes you look like you have a third breast. It's not a good look," she explained in case I was going to race directly to Vogue headquarters to start posing.
"I am not a C cup," I told her and returned to the robe selection. Unfortunately they were all embroidered with something like "Sexy!" and "Cutie Pie!" instead of "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, I DON'T HAVE THREE BREASTS" which I was in the market for.
"I'll measure you!" she volunteered and before I could reach for my personal mace container, lassoed me with her breast measurement.
Ten wrangling minutes later, I bought a new bra.
"You were right," I told her.
"I know," she said. "I'm a professional."
Victoria's Secret: 1
Labels: I hate shopping