Un-comfy

Last night I stopped by our only major department store to look for a new shirt. We have a consultancy firm coming to school today to see how we're doing. Operating under the premise that when you feel snazzy, you work snazzy, I thought a new shirt might do the trick. So S. and I went a'shoppin'.

I nearly always feel uncomfortable in stores. I'm not a usual customer. I zing over here, I zap over there. I want to look at everything before I make a choice. Which I did pretty quickly. I found a cute top, and, not wanting to freak the saleslady out by just walking around the store with it, I asked her if it was ok to take it from her department because I also needed to buy some face powder. She said it was fine.

So we zagged upstairs to look at children's clothes. Found a pair of jeans on sale for S. for $9.00! Hey! Since the lady downstairs didn't have a problem with me paying for an item in another department, I thought we were cool to take the jeans and my shirt and head back downstairs to the make-up counter. Which we did, under the gaze of the children's department girl. She must have magical powers, because we went back downstairs and passed her on the way to the make-up counter. "Fleet of foot" would be a good descriptor for this young lady.

I have to say, nothing dramatic happened. I asked the make-up lady for some powder, she deferred to another make-up lady. But then there were waaaay more people hanging around the Clinique counter than is normal. One man in a suit. Talking to another salesperson. And it was then that I realized that they must have thought I was a shoplifter. Um yeah, I normally shoplift in my school badge and whistle. And with my daughter in tow. It's how I roll, folks. At any rate, I tried to just be cool. I payed for my purchases, and then S. and I walked the heck on out of there. I fully expected to be stopped, thrown on the floor, and frisked. It all played out in my mind . . . I'd be taken to a back room, the contents of my messy purse would be emptied on to some table. Exposing my most recent work evaluation, (hey, it said some nice things, I carry it around for moral support) a birthday card that my aunt wrote, some cracker dust, and about 675,000 receipts for groceries. I'd look smug, see no stolen good here. Then I'd place an irate phone call to C. who would arrive in a blaze of glory on his motor-scooter and beat up the department store loss-prevention team, then we'd go home, eat baked potatoes with chili, and call it a day.

Or maybe it was all in my imagination.