Friday I woke up with two certainties: I needed to sort out the pain in my right shoulder and I needed new clothes. Tackling the shoulder pain was easy, I just made my way to my favorite Tui Na place in midtown. The latter was another issue as a) I hate shopping sometimes and b) I am on a bit of a budget. On a whim I stopped in at Kenneth Cole at Grand Central and spying a young sales woman whose outfit I admired, I asked that she throw some things together for me and start a dressing room. She sized me up then started right away, picking and choosing items without consulting me on color or design, but going by what she thought would be the best fit-in all arenas. I was thrilled. I tried on about 12 things and chose 4. While in the changing room I got an invite to a preview of 9 to 5: The Musical including a Q & A with Dolly Parton (yeeeehaw!). This change of events required and justified my walking out of KC in one of my new splash outfits.
My personal shopper assured me that I could just cut the tags off at the register and walk out as such. While waiting at the register, another salesperson (male) walked by and told me that my new tunic looked smashing and he gave me a thumbs up. The new ensemble was like anything I have ever worn, but I loved it. This is why people like shopping, I mused, and handed my lil' green credit card to the man behind the register. As he handed it back to me, he looked at me and said "How far along are you?" I froze. I had just been thinking about which lipstick color to go for and how I planned on wearing jeans more often and this question snapped me out of my revery like a rubberband on the eyelid. I paused, glanced to the clerk who had raved about my new look, but he was crimson and looking through an invisible pile of things, then I glanced back at the man who'd just done damage to my credit card, looked him in the eye and quite soberly said "I am not pregnant". At this he looked down, exhaled an apology, and hurried along with printing the receipt. I chuckled half heartedly and said "Are you mortified? Because I am." He didn't reply, but just said, "How about a do-over" which made little sense to me so I collected my packages and walked away.
Strangely, I didn't want to change back into my old outfit. I liked what I was wearing, and quite frankly, I thought it was flattering and I felt comfortable and good. But what I did regret was that I didn't react in a more extravagant fashion. Following are a few options I fantacized about on my way to 9 to 5:
At "How far along are you?" I wish I had:
A) Looked at the guy dismayed, then said "FUCK, I am pregnant?! NOT AGAIN!!!"
B) Punched my stomach repeatedly and yelled, "Get it out of me!"
C) Shrugged my shoulders and replied "10 months, it just won't come out. Can you believe that?"
D) Picked up the scissors next to me and started cutting off all my clothes and then just walked out.
It's a tricky thing, mentioning a strangers delicate condition, which is why I don't do it. I recommend the same for people in clothing sales.
*Thanks to L.A.B. for the working title.
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