Clothes
I'm the kind of guy that buys things and milks them for everything they're worth. I've got a 6 year old car with only 44,000 miles on it. The newest pair of jeans I have is a year old; the oldest is 10. I buy shoes maybe once every two years. I've had the same wallet I've had since I was 16. Granted, it's a horrible looking peice of shit, but it just. won't. die.
So I had to go shopping for work clothes today. I mean, it kind of irritates me, because I got some shit for Christmas last year, but it's starting to wear. Normally I wouldn't give a shit, but I feel like I should approach my work attire with a little more tact. Which sucks, because I have very little as it is.
So I walk into Dillards to see if I can scrounge anything from the clearance racks. In my mind, there are only two months in each year that a person should be shopping for clothes: March and September. Grab the shit that's on clearance from the previous season right?
So there I am in shorts, a favorite old t-shirt, and a pair of Rainbows. I'm perusing the labels (Murano, Turnberry, Polo, etc.) and checking sizes. I'm a bit of an odd shape (tall and medium built), so many times the clearance racks are filled with the sizes that most people can't fit but will fit me fine.
"You look a little tall."
"Hm?" The sales lady startled me. She's about the height of a hobbit, and looks oddly like one. "Oh, I'm about a 34-34."
"Well, most of that stuff is down in that section down there." She points and, I swear, she's looking down at me through her glasses. Amazing.
"Actually, there's some right here on this rack."
"That's the clearance rack. You might have more luck right over there," she points again, "This is the designer section."
What a judgemental cockface this woman is. I'm sorry it's 60 fucking degrees outside and I decided to wear shorts today, but I'm pretty sure I can shop wherever the fuck I want. I checked the mirror just to make sure I was still white. I figured maybe I'd entered the fucking Twilight Zone or some shit. I didn't know people really treated eachother like this.
"No, that's fine; I'm looking for work clothes."
"Is it an office environment?"
No bitch, I'm the dancing monkey in a fucking travelling circus. "Oh yeah," I say with a little emphasis. She scuttles off. Probably back to the rock that she lives under. Wicked cunt.
I finish picking out some slacks and shirts, and I guess that pious, crotchety old bag finally resigns herself to the fact the best way to get me out of her designer section is to finish the sale. She comes over to help me and I try my best to ignore her. Then I realize I'm in way over my head - these clothes come in colors and patterns. Fuuuuuuck.
The office attire I have at home is all plain: french blue, grey, white, black, olive, khaki. The shit in this store is striped, herring-boned, criss-cross, sand, brown, green, blue, fucking radiant and crazy. For a second I thought I was on acid. I recognize that I'm going to need this woman's help. Enemies allied. Son of a bitch.
She helps me pick out some shirts to match the pairs of slacks I have. After shopping around, I think the old fucker gains a little bit of respect for me. Probably because I'm holding merchandise in my hands. She's actually helping me find deals, working with the colors I want to wear, etc.
In the end, I walked out of there with a couple of outfits for an outrageously cheap price. Which makes me happy because I know that bitch didn't make shit for comission. Serves her right the (ahem, I'm going to try this one out here) poxy cunt.