As much as I love sports of all kinds, there’s just no way that even I can put up with watching games or listening to ESPN radio on a 24/7 basis. Even though I will never cease to annoy my girlfriend with 2 a.m. re-re-re-runs of Baseball Tonight and my insistence that eight hours before a Georgia
And so it was that last Friday saw both Kelly and I have an entire day to ourselves. While one part of my brain told me that it would be a perfect time to start partying in anticipation of GSU’s appearance in the Southern Conference championship softball game, the part of my brain that rather dislikes sleeping on couches decided that this wasn’t in my best interest. Instead, I joined Kelly in a trip to Savannah
Now, I’m no stranger to shopping with the fairer sex. Having a mother and two sisters, I’ve been through the rigors of clothes shopping before and realize that their way of deciding on wardrobe is a bit different than my own philosophy of ‘that one looks good and is even within arm’s length. I’ll take it.’ Still, it had been quite a few years since the old days of the family trip to the mall for back-to-school shopping and I quickly realized that I was in for a rude awakening.
Before we go any farther, I feel obliged to make a plea to my girlfriend… Kelly, this isn’t an indictment of you or your shopping tendencies. I have every reason to believe that you are on the most desirable end of the scale of girls that I’d want to be in a mall with while they hold the only key to the car. I love you, and the dress that you picked out is absolutely perfect.
OK. Hopefully that gets me out of too much trouble, so let’s continue on our adventure.
Things started up innocently enough. As we rolled into the mall, I was instructed to go to Belk. My first instinct was to say, “Babe. We have a Belk in Statesboro. Why did we have to go the whole way to Savannah
Once we ventured upstairs to the men’s and women’s sections, I immediately wandered off to look at polo shirts, only to realize that one rack of clothing with little horseys on them cost more than my college education. Resigning myself to my fate, I joined my girlfriend among the forest of dress racks to begin judging the candidates.
The first rack: too tacky. The second rack: too dressy. Don’t want to show up the bride. The third rack: Juuuussst rig-OH MY GOD, LOOK AT THAT PRICETAG!!!!!
About 10 minutes in, it seemed as though we hit the jackpot. Kelly found a dress that we both agreed looked good. In fact, she had seen it before and liked it a few weeks ago in Statesboro (still not falling for that one), and it was even a bit cheaper here. But then, tragedy befell me. There were none of those dresses in the right size. A few more trips through the Belk racks turned up nothing, leading me to endure the unknown perils of the rest of the mall.
As a guy, it’s amazing how many women’s clothing stores you never knew existed until you are required to look at all of them. In fact, there are 28 different stores classified as women’s apparel under the roof of the Oglethorpe Mall.
Not only are there an inordinate amount of women’s clothing stores, but they seem to have run out of normal names to go by. After the first quarter-mile of walking or so, I wasn’t sure whether we were looking for a dress or a nightclub. With store names like 5 7 9, Cache, Decibel, Envy and Rainbow, it’s tough to tell.
To my credit, I was pretty well behaved. Luckily, I was in need of a new pair of flip-flops, so at all of the stores featuring clothes for men and women, I was able to stare at a wall of shoes instead of pretending that I had an eye for picking out a nice dress.
Of course, even this reprieve wasn’t entirely good news. Thanks to my well-documented cheapness, my search for flip-flops turned into a five-store diatribe on how overpriced a slab of rubber and a couple of leather bands have become and how anybody willing to drop $50 for a pair of flip-flops should give up any and all credit cards on principle.
Kelly, who I know for a fact has spent the equivalent of an impoverished African country’s GDP on footwear, probably didn’t want to hear any of it, but – to her credit – let me wear myself out with complaining and will likely compliment whatever $5 Wal-Mart flip-flops I end up buying.
Finally, on what I think was the 12th store that we set foot in, gold was struck. After finding dresses that were “too big, too small, too white, too black, and too flowy(?)”, Kelly found her perfect dress. With the finish line in sight, all she had to do was try it on. So we waited…. And waited… and waited. Ten full minutes went by and evidently, none of the four women filling up the dressing room had anything better to do that day. Luckily, Kelly spotted another fitting room and after a nerve-wracking wait, she emerged with a dress that fit perfectly. SUCCESS!
All that was left was to check out. At least, that’s what I thought. While spending 15 minutes looking through the racks and ten more waiting to try on her dress, Kelly loved the dark blue number she had found. Yet, in what I’m assuming is some sort of female mind game, the final 50 yard sprint to the cash register was filled with me having to assure her of how good the dress looked as she was suddenly second guessing her choice.
I had come too far to start the search all over, so I summoned up what was left of my psyche and kept her in favor of the dress.
Sensing that I was perilously close to escaping, the store we were in threw out one final curve ball. You see, every store that I go to has the same setup. You go inside, you pick up whatever you want and on the way out, pass a register where you can pay.
This relatively simple arrangement is lost on department stores. Instead of conveniently placed registers near the exits, there are checkout islands placed randomly throughout the store. There’s one at the makeup booth. There’s one under the escalator. I think that I saw one in the bathroom. Fortunately, we found one with a straight shot to the exit so that I could ensure no further shopping.
But that isn’t the end of it. Of course it isn’t. There are four registers at these islands and three people working, yet only one seems to actually be scanning items. AND NOW THEY’RE ROTATING!!! This turns the checkout process into an impromptu game of musical chairs as everyone circles the island, not quite sure of which register is open or where a line should form. This is fine for the women, who get a 360-view of all the other items on sale near the island. For us men, it becomes a death march. We keep slowly shuffling around, keeping eye contact with the other males, searching for a sign of weakness and ready to pull our shopping companions to an open register at a moment’s notice. There is no male camaraderie here. This is war, and we’re just trying to get back home in one piece.
At long last, we arrived at the register. Now desperate to keep us in its clutches, the store makes its last stand. The female soldier behind her scan gun went on her three-minute rant, all the time staring directly at Kelly as my thoughts and opinions were of little consequence.
“Are you a member of our club? Would you like to become one? If you do, you’ll receive 5 percent off today, 10 percent on special sales, a microchip in your brain that beams our clearance items directly to you, and a nice little carrying case for your boyfriend’s testicles.”
I think that’s about right. I kind of blacked out.
Thankfully, Kelly resisted all of this and, after giving a phone number, email address, home zip code, and filling out a survey – I’m not joking here. They actually made her give all of that – we were allowed to escape with her dress and a one-item receipt that stretched over two feet (still not joking).
Thoroughly beaten, I was allowed the solace of the food court. Never has $7.99 honey chicken tasted so much like freedom.
I thank you for sharing in my experiences. I’ve been told that talking about traumatic events is the best way to begin coping.
If you’d like to hear more of my travels, come visit me at my sister’s wedding next week. After Kelly reads this, I’m sure that I’ll be relegated to the corner of the reception room, left to drink alone and dread the next formal event to which we’re invited.
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