I have written about how much I loathe shopping. Much of what I dislike about local shopping here on the Gold Coast is the interaction with the sales help. I don’t like anyone get all up in my business when I am trying things on. Face it, most of us know what works on us and what doesn’t. We surely don’t need a salesperson to talk us into something with false flattery.
For better or worse, I have passed this distaste for shopping on to my daughter. Lucky for her she is walking around in a 20-year-old body so things are a bit easier, but still, how many women look in the mirror and are completely satisfied?
I bring this story up today because I was driving around and for some reason remembered this day and I laughed out loud. Jana and I were shopping for the Junior Prom and we made the huge mistake of going into one of the stores that I refer to affectionately as the Belly of the Beast. It sits in the center of a quaint little town nearby where unfortunately most of the women are cranky. Why? Because, as my friend Karen always says, “THEY ARE HUNGRY!”
From the moment we stepped into the shop we knew we were screwed. The racks were laden with bejeweled and bespangled dresses that were overpriced and lacking in taste. We were not there 2 minutes before a young woman came out of the dressing room and the saleswoman, who had a raspy, loud, cliché of a Long Island accent, shouted so that she could be heard somewhere in the midwest, “Oh my Gawd that dress is a hawt attack on you! A hawt attack I tell you.” Turning to the other women in the store she repeated, “Is this dress not a hawt attack on huh?” She gave the term Drop Dead Dress a whole new meaning.
Jana and I took one look at each other, turned, walked out the door and burst out laughing on the street. To this day when I pass that shop I can still hear the ghost of shopping days past in that smoker’s voice filled with gravel shouting, “A hawt attack, I tell ya, simply a hawt attack!”
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