Let me preface this by saying that I am backwards. I’m awkward, really. I get easily embarrassed and/or uncomfortable about certain things. So embarrassed/awkward/uncomfortable that every time my mom tried to give me ‘the talk’ growing up, I sang the Star Spangled Banner or plugged my ears so I didn’t have to hear it. Not because I was rebellious, but because it made me feel too embarrassed/awkward/uncomfortable. See? Backwards. If you decide not to read my blog again after this because you think I’m just too weird, I totally understand. This story will only make sense if you imagine a truly awkward individual conquering one of their greatest public fears. And still yet, it may only make sense to my best friends, for the know how truly awkward I am.
Okay, on to the story. Over the weekend, I went to a lingerie shower for a friend. Which meant that I actually had to go to a store, in front of people, and buy lingerie. I wish I could really express how awkward this is for me. Seriously, my face is turning red as I type this. This story proves, in my opinion, that God has a sense of humor.
Anyway, I headed out to a department store and slyly made my way to the lingerie department. I made sure no one was around and I quickly grabbed a little ‘outfit’. I’m surprised security wasn’t called on me because I looked more than suspicious. I grabbed another shirt off of a rack to conceal the ‘little outfit’ so that no one could see that I was carrying lingerie. Weirdo, I know.
I walked around the store looking for the shortest checkout line, with the youngest female attendant. I rounded a corner, and bingo! Only one other person in line, and an attendant that looked close to my age. You know, at least if she was closer to my age, she might not give me a look. Or worse yet, judge me.
I got in line and realized that the lady in front of me had a return, so it was taking a little longer than usual. No biggie, I thought. I still had the lingerie concealed in the shirt, and nobody was behind me. After about 2 minutes in line, I realized that something was wrong with the return. So the cashier called for another cashier for assistance. And that, my friends, is when it began.
The other cashier showed up. She was probably in her late 40s, glasses on her nose, and not a smile in the vicinity. She was very stern and not very pleasant. She began helping with the transaction, which, at this point, had taken about 5 minutes. I noticed that there was now a line forming behind me. Stay cool, Britt, stay cool. There was a man in his 60s behind me in line. He started a little small talk about the weather. And that led him to started talking about his granddaughter, who was a missionary in South America. Beads of sweat started popping out.
It was finally my turn at the register. Dangit! The stern lady with the glasses had replaced the other cashier. I laid my shirt on the counter and slowly unwrapped the lingerie. She gave me a look. I told her I changed my mind about the shirt, and didn’t want it anymore. Cool, I know.
At this point, the older man behind me was still talking to me about his granddaugher, the missionary. I was starting to itch, as I always do when I get nervous. The stern lady was trying to ring up the lingerie but it wasn’t registering. So then she, too, called for assistance. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Another cashier showed up, a male in his later 40s. The stern lady was waving the lingerie around, trying to get it to ring up. She gave it to the male cashier and there he was waving the lingerie around, trying to get it register. By this time, there was at least 5 people in line behind me.
I was sweating. Bad. My messy bangs were now glued to my forehead with sweat. Pit stains were forming on my shirt. I had made the stellar decision to wear a tight gray shirt that day, perfect for displaying rings o’ sweat. After at least 3 minutes of trying to ring up the lingerie, both cashiers decided that the register was broken, and we needed to walk to another register. Oh em gee.
So we (2 cashiers, the missionary’s grandfather, hell’s angel, and the 5 other people in line) proceeded to walk halfway around the store, while
hell’s angel I led the pack carrying the lingerie. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was red and wet. Soaking with sweat. My skirt was sticking to my behind and the rings o’sweat had gone out of bounds.
The stern lady cashier rang me up. I asked her, very loudly, if I could have a gift receipt BECAUSE THIS WAS FOR A FRIEND. She gave me another look. I wanted to tell her that I wore my 1991 Busch Gardens t-shirt to bed last night. And that lingerie made me itch. And that I supported South American missionaries. And that I still watch the Golden Girls and still spell ‘es’ eee’ exxx’ instead of saying the word.
It didn’t matter. She knew. She could smell the fear. A teenage girl most likely, pretending to be an adult, buying lingerie for a ‘friend’. One of my greatest public fears had now morphed into a nightmare. I was forever scarred.
I grabbed the bag and the gift receipt and walked out of the store, vowing to never buy lingerie in public EVER AGAIN. Here that, friends? If you have anymore lingerie showers, I will not buy you lingerie. I will buy you a crockpot or an apron or a towel warmer. NO MORE LINGERIE. EVER.
|A lingerie shower cake my friend and I made for another friend. I blush every time I see it.|