I finally burrowed out of my dark flat into the brightness of the real world today. To go shopping. At a (dreaded) shopping mall.
Skinny people everywhere
Between the plastic manequins draped with the latest skinny fashions, the traumatic change rooms and the queue’s, I never try anything on. I cross my fingers and hope it fits. Wandering aimlessly, I can’t imagine fitting into that streamlined dress, or that cotton top, or that jersey, t-shirt, jacket……. My eating disorders ricochet inside my head. Convinced I resemble a starving Etheopian with Kwashiorkor, I gave up, my mood low and my feet aching.
My round pot belly is out of proportion to the rest of my body
But I needed one of those one terabyte thingies. The salesman tells me the special’s sold out. I look at him, waiting for options. He looks back at me, blinking. I say, well don’t you have any in the back? He goes off and returns with an older gentleman who tells me the same thing, madam we are out of stock, but you can take this one instead. And the genius points to a more expensive brand. Oh, for the same price though, I enquire. He says no. I say, well then that’s not a choice, you are forcing me to purchase the more expensive brand. He says, sorry we’re out of stock, his gaze shifts into the distance and he starts picking his nose.
WELL, my brain goes ENGAGE RAGE. I have a vague recollection of loud words coming hot and fast off my tongue while waving my hands above my head in a muddy impression of “Cheaters vs Jerseylisious”. I ranted about Mr Big Corporation preying on the General Consumer, we’re a ‘lamb to the slaughter’ being reduced to impotent victims yadda yadda . I know I stamped my foot at one point. That sent the first saleman running, yes running like Usain Bolt, away from me and to the safe enclave of his fellow colleagues a few feet away.
Even I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of my rage
But I did need the terabyte thingie. So I cursed the older salesman who had by this stage taken his finger out his nose and was staring at me with a slack jaw. I don’t recall what else I shouted, but the fiasco finished off with a Shame on you, SHAME ON YOU, dressing down to the older salesman, before I wobbled away, shaking, jerking, twitching, to the cashier.
This is why I don’t like shopping. Between the change room lighting, people pushing and bumping, long queue’s and sore feet, keeping vigilant for pick-pocketers, my tolerance wears thin, triggers start popping, and all it takes is a salesman absentmindedly fingering his nose, to set me off.