What they tried to sell me.

The other day I went looking for a bathing suit. Which is a whole thing in itself…but I digress.

I noticed something while shopping at my local mall: Certain stores discriminate against me due to my…ahem…age.

Look, I am not that olde (notice the old world “e”), but I am definitely not buying One Direction BFF necklaces at Claire’s either.

Let me illustrate:

A few stores in, I stepped into a retailer. I will not mention the name, but it has two letters and there is an “&” in the middle.

I usually don’t shop there, but they had a plethora of bathing suits, and it was right next to Build a Bear, where I had to get a birthday gift.

Plus, it was cheap. Bonus.

So in I went.

Upon entering, the sales people scattered. Why? I was showered, wearing makeup and my good wedges. What the hell?

When I could not reach a bathing suit (I am slightly deficient in the height arena), no one offered assistance. Even after numerous grunts, mutterings, and trying to scale the clothing racks – nothing.

So I requested some assistance. By the look on the sales guy’s face, you’d think I asked him for five hundred bucks and then kicked him in the gut. He sighed, huffed, and reached up grabbing a whopping two suits. Oh the humanity.

All this from a guy with a McRib stain on his shirt.

If you must be snooty, be snooty like this guy.

After that escapade, I could not figure out the sizes. Crap.

So I had to ask yet another sales person for help. McRib had vanished, most likely for a Smart Water and e-cigarette break from all that exertion.

Sales person number two was only slightly better. I explained I did not understand the sizes. He explained they were European sizes. There was an awkward silence. Then I made the mistake of asking what size I would wear. More awkward silence accompanied by staring. He suggested I try three different sizes because they run small and [insert cute shrug], “You just never know.” I asked him for a metric conversion chart regarding the sizes. More awkward silence.

Then he fluttered off, leaving me to fend for myself in reaching yet another suit at the top of the cathedral-height ceilings.

The unhelpfulness continued at the dressing room (I had about ten different sizes for one article of clothing – flipping Europeans), and the checkout counter.

Sadly, this is not the only store trying to boot me and my kind out of their retail establishments. Simply because we are no longer enrolled in COMM 101.

Or these guys.

But I’m not going down the J.Jill’s tube without a fight.

I like what I like, and sometimes that takes me to Nordstrom, and sometimes it takes me to a store where all the clothing could start a forest fire by breathing heavily on it.

Also, my credit card works just fine last I checked.

So listen up all you club music pumping stores – I’ve got my eye on you. I will walk through your doors with a package of smashed Goldfish at the bottom of my purse if I feel like it. Or maybe I won’t, but that’s my decision.

If I don’t pass out in the doorway from all the cologne first.