LESSON LEARNED

I don’t like myself, like shopping even less. The airless dressing room feels like a tomb. (not that I’ve ever been in one) 5 garments are allowed in here at a time. All I want is to get a new pair of straight leg jeans. The tags on these tell me I have the right style and size but who knows if the Koreans read English. The new pair is to replace my favorite comfortable but growing shabby one. The zipper still glides like an ice skater doing an axle. I noted a little fraying near my right shoe but I’m the only one who knows it. None of the five work for me. I hand the five pairs, nicely folded, back to my saleslady who is a bit indignant and asks me to put them back in the pile I took them from. I get indignant myself and just put them down on the first counter I passed.

The next pile I check out says, ‘faded straight leg’. There it is, a 30" waist, 28" length, 2 shades of fade, and I take them to the fitting rooms. They are all in use. Hell with it. I pass a cashier counter, lay the 30" 28" right there in the middle. ‘Miss, Miss,’ she calls. I ignore her and head for the escalator, aiming for the lunch room. It’s 11 a.m. on the dot. Who has lunch this early besides me and some birds? It looks like the entire city, that’s who. There must be 50 people ahead of me. Screw them. Jauntily I walk the line pretending I’m meeting someone, find not a soul I know who will be glad to have me join her.

Hell’s bells, I’m not even hungry, aim for the escalator to take me down to the basement bargains. There are no customers. My being the only one, I am approached by three salesladies at once who have big smiles on their wrinkled faces. They could be sisters. Two lead me to the jeans department. One tickles me when she measures my waist and embarrasses me when she tries to go up my skirt to take my in seam. ‘Sarah, that’s not necessary. I am a 30" waist and 28" length. I want straight leg jeans, no flares, no skinny legs, no hob nails or leather trim, plain, plain, jeans.

Jennie barely waits for my measurements, takes small, fast steps to a stack she says is exactly what I want. ‘My Dear, these run a little small. I brought you a 31. Come with me.’ We head to the dressing room, singular. A cheesy cotton curtain is a far cry from the walnut doors upstairs, each with a lock that only the salesgirl can open. She pulls back the curtain for me to enter and lets it go. It zaps me on my keyster. My jeans she hangs on a large hook, gives me a hand as I step into the new jeans. ‘Oh, Miss. What’s your name?’ I tell her Roslyn. ‘Well, Roslyn, they don’t fit right. The seat is baggy. Take those off.’ With her tiny, fast feet she returns in a jiffy. She helps me out of the 30 into the 29 and loudly exclaims, ‘Perfect’. I knew it too, the moment the zipper zipped. “Jennie, do you have the same style, size, in black, maybe gray?’ The Fairy Queen returns quickly with one of each and insists I try them all. ‘They are not always true to the size markings.’ This time they are. The price is $14.95, a real bargain in the bargain basement. How can I go wrong on this deal?

‘Thanks for your help, Ladies. I just wish they were made in the USA.’