Am I Really Receiving a One-Way Ticket to Chico’s?

What they tried to sell me.

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.

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.

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.

Am I Really Buying This Belly Chain/Dolphin Pencil/Burn Your Face Off BBQ Sauce When I Know I’ll Never Use It?

I’m having a yard sale this weekend. Please come and buy all my crap-ola.  I don’t know how I accrue all this shizzaz. It’s as if I wake up one day and realize I will be on the next episode of Hoarders.

I don’t get it. Why, why, why do I purchase items that I know down deep will only collect dust, or rot in the back of the refrigerator?  My purchases are like those stupid captcha words you have to type in when buying concert tickets to the House of Blues. The font is a cross between a three-year-old’s scrawl and realvirtue (Who the hell uses that font? Probably the same three people who eat at Arby’s.).  Unnecessary is my point here.

I think the answer has less to do with frivolous spending, and more so with, “Oh cool! I want to be that person who wears a Roman Goddess-style belt.”

I’m not though. I look at the belt and then I put on my pants with a hole in the pocket. But I want to be that person. That person seems cool, and hip, and healthy. That chick is going to parties with bottle service and laughing about silly lame women stuck in the carpool line. She probably also owns a Jeep. Bitch.

Sometimes I want to buy a new something something and be the cool person I think  would wear/eat/use that item.

Below are some items which I have purchased (some more than once) in my vain attempt to be that person:

  • The book The Secret and a couple other warm and fuzzy how to succeed in life books. I usually read at the first chapter, realize I have to make some type of collage to get my dream home by the sea, and then find I am out of glue. Spiritual Self Help Books = masking themselves as craft books.
  • An extra, extra long striped scarf. This was my attempt to go Bohemian. I saw the scarf and thought, “Oh, I will wear this and my glasses while writing in a dirty coffee house that smells like Arabica beans and poor hipsters.” Unfortunately for the scarf I am super short, creating a Swiffer mop scenario for the too-cool-for-school scarf. Trendy Scarf = HoarHcrammed in the back of the closet.
  • Fresh kale. I still have no idea how to cook this damn plant, but a magazine boasted of all its vitamins, anti-aging properties, and the possibility of balancing my check book. So there it sat in my crisper until it turned yellow. Super Healthy food = someone else needs to cook this sh*t.
  • Yet another journal. Many a tree has died for the sole purpose of me buying the decorative covered notebook and writing on one page: Pay Electric Bill, Out of Peanut Butter, and Children with Animal Faces. Then I dutifully misplace said notebook, only to buy another one a couple of months later. Yes, I eventually use these paper books, but it seems like a waste. Sassy Journal = a felled redwood and forgotten story idea.

Bottom line – I like being me. So should you. It’s fun to try on different styles and personas, just don’t forget what you’re all about.

This weekend, as I watch strangers buy my un-wanted shirts, old baby gear, and those stupid candle holders I never used, I will feel clean. A new beginning to carve out a new piece of myself so I can go out and get new stuff to match the new and improved me.

And maybe remember to buy that damn peanut butter.