November 11, 2005

Pants the New Guy!

I am suddenly incredibly tired. I had lunch with my coworkers, came back to a small fruit salad that went nicely with the pizza I ate at lunch, and ever since have felt like there were little weights on my eyelids. I feel drugged. Maybe there was something in the fruit. All I want is my bed and my shoes off and four hours together to nap. One thing’s for damn sure: there will be no more working today. I am done. I have to work at House of Pain (and Coffee) later tonight, so as I long as I have a cushy office job I shall abuse the hell out of it for the next 2 hours. And what better way than with an amusing tale of one of my infamous shopping trips:

Beedoo Buys Pants
So I’m at the mall, feeling guilty since I’ve put on a pound and am too lazy to work out, and decided to skip exercising so that I may buy a new pair of shoes. My poor fallen arch was bugging the crap out of me, and I decided I couldn’t go home without new shoes. So naturally, I end up buying pants. The Scenario: The Limited is having a sale: 40% off all of their pants. I think I may have mentioned that I have never bought pants from any skinny-people store, or any store in the mall that wasn’t an anchor or outlet. I am intrigued, as I have exactly two pair of pants that are suitable for work, and decide to check it out.

I wander around the store a bit (luckily it’s not like the shoe store; they have very little out on display, so you don’t get overwhelmed) and I grab two pair of pants: one brown corduroys and one grey slacks, both size 10 short. I try them on. They both fit, are both comfy, and both are suitable for work. I get positive feedback on both pairs from my shopping companion. So hey, all is going well. I check the price of the cords: $49.00. OK, so they’re expensive. But they’re 40% off, and that’s the only way that people other than Paris Hilton can afford them, so they’re really only $30. I can step to that. Cool.

Next pair: the grey slacks. This is the pair I really ought to buy, since they are more professional-looking, and they go with more of my tops. Price tag: $74.00. I’m not kidding. I did the most fantastic double-take, in my pink gingham undies, in front of a full length mirror. If I had been a cartoon, I would have had bugged-out eyes, steam coming out of my ears and a spinning bow tie. Since I am not, and neither can I control my impulses, I yelled “WHAT?” very loudly in the dressing room. I was immediately ashamed—not because I was being loud in the rich-people store, which seems impertinent, but also because it feels weird to yell in your underwear in public. I coughed sort of meekly, like maybe people would think I had sneezed. As I put my own pants back on, I irrationally felt bad that I had tried on the expensive pants, because I was gross from work, and they were a million dollars. I feel like I soiled them. I wanted to apologize. At least I was going to buy the corduroys; that might make up for my getting poor-people mocha-stench on their nice clean solid gold pants. I’m sure the people who buy these things at full price don’t need to work for a living. How depressing.

So, I get in line at the counter to buy the cords:

ME:
Dude, you will not believe how much those pants were.

SHOPPING BUDDY:
Oh, I bet I can guess.

ME:
Go ahead.

SB:
Um… $70.

ME:
You peeked.

SB:
No, I just know these kinds of stores. The less they put out, the more they can charge.

ME:
Like hookers.

SB:
Exactly.

ME:
Seventy-four dollars. For pants.

SB:
Some people pay that.

ME:
That’s insane! What, are they woven with spun gold and sized with weapons-grade uranium?

SB:
Maybe. Could be a CIA operation, and those pants are the drug mule.

ME:
Oooh, Spy Pants. (pouts) Now I want some.

SB:
That’s the whole point.

We’re still not at the register yet, since the chick there has decided to open an account, whether it means the line will move at all that day or not. This gives me enough time to start having second thoughts about spending money.

ME:
Do I really want these pants?

SB:
Yes. They look nice.

ME:
Yeah, but do I have anything that will go?

SB:
Don’t you have sweaters?

ME:
Yeah, I have like, three white ones.

SB:
That’ll go fine.

ME:
But they’re so expensive…

SB:
And yet on sale

ME:
That’s true. Are they a weird color?

SB:
They’re brown.

ME:
Yeah, but are they a little purplish? Or is it the light?

SB:
It’s the light.

ME:
You just don’t want to get out of line.

SB:
You like the pants. You need pants. Buy the damn pants.

ME:
Yeah… I just… I hate spending money, I really do. They have to be the best pants in the freaking world if I’m going to spend money on them—they need to be completely above reproach.

SB:
They’re good pants, and they’re reasonably priced. What else do you want?

ME: (pause)
Do they make my butt look good?

SB: (instantly)
Yes.

ME:
I’m getting them.

Nobody wants to shop with me. Including me.

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