Shopping Without Felonies

So it happened and I'm thirty.  And life didn't end, though I suddenly stopped allowing my family to wear shoes in the house.  That frankly came out of nowhere...but somehow I'm resolved and I'm annoying.  It's a strange combination to be, and likely a strange combination to be around.  And also I have pink hair right now, so nobody has called me "mam" for awhile.  I'm safe...for now.  Really, I should say "they are safe".  Because let's face it.  I was getting feisty.

So on my birthday, Chris agreed to go shopping with me.  Not sure if it was a gift, or a sacrifice in the name of support, since this was my first shopping trip since having Adelai.  I'm still waiting for a few more pounds to effortlessly and suddenly drop off my body, so I wasn't all that excited.  But I did have a substantial amount of gift cards from Christmas, so I reluctantly planned the trip.  To Nordstroms.  Because I like pain. 

I love Nordstroms, so please don't misunderstand. Or maybe I should say, I loved Nordstroms when I could look at my body without vomiting in my mouth a little bit.  The thing about Nordstroms is that not one of their employees looks like they struggle to look presentable.  It makes me want to explode in a somewhat psychotic rage every time one of the gorgeous, meticulously dressed people approach me and ask if they can help somehow.  I muster up the words "No, thank you.  I'm fine." However, what I'm really thinking is this:

Can you help me?  Clearly not.  You weigh 104 lbs and I could break you in half if we were both competing to reach the cheeseburger first.  But we wouldn't, because you would be eating a salad.  And I'd be all greasy, and you'd be all hungry, and neither of us would be happy.  Except that clearly you wear a size -2, and I'm enormous.  If I wanted to be that skinny, they'd have to remove bones from my body.  And how did you have time to put on jewelry?  Don't you have a two year old who will immediately notice that you have something on you that can be grabbed and swung on?  Doesn't anybody try to hang off of you 20 hours a day?  And what is that in your hair? Is that product? Did you ACTUALLY have time to DO your hair?  Oh.  And your makeup? Oh. Kay....ummm no.  You can not help me.  I wear sweatpants 80% of my life.  You clearly wear these amazing clothes in your sleep.  I bet you know exactly where the matching socks are in your house.  We have nothing to say to each other. 

So Chris just cracked me up while shopping, because if there were a poster boy for total discomfort, it would him standing in the middle of the women's section.  He's trying desperately to be supportive, but somehow that comes in the form of sitting in a small seat, hidden in the midst of clothes attempting to immerse himself in his Blackberry.  He is kind of holding my purse, if by "holding my purse", you are referring to him putting my purse under the seat next to him and using absolutely no effort to "watch" it. 

I'm not sure why this is an improvement.  Wouldn't a man want a woman to claim in that department?  The other possibility is that you would just be some creepy guy sitting in the women's department pretending to attend to your Blackberry.  For fun. 

Every once and awhile, he says "oooh, cute!" randomly.  This usually occurs after I pick something off the rack that is so awful that I have to look at it more closely.  Then I say "really, honey?  You thought this leopard print shirt was cute?" and then he's all terrified that he's been discovered as uncomfortable, and says "Oh. No way.  That's hideous. I was being sarcastic?"  

So I go through the process of trying on a pair of pants that Skinny Girl told me - "were super cute! I tried them on last night.  I loved them!" - as I'm walking into the dressing room.  Great.  Immediately I'm picturing her and I wearing the same pants.  She probably wears the same size jeans as Chase, my four year old. 

I try them on and I try not to become instantly depressed to the depth of my core. I also try on 7 shirts with just 1 wearable and I plan to sneak out of this store as soon as is humanly possible.  Skinny Girl is ringing up the total.  I ask her if I can get the pants tailored when I finally lose the weight (in 32 years).  "Oh yes.  I totally understand.  I have 2 boys.  It was so hard to lose the weight!  I totally had to work out, and I never work out.  How old is your baby?"

She never works out. 
SHE NEVER WORKS OUT?
EVER?
NEVER EVER? 

I look down at my shoes.  My vomited on, peed on shoes.  "Umm...10 months. She's uh....10 months old."
Is that a stunned look on her face?
"Oh." She says. "Sooo cute....."
Silence.
I look at Chris.  He shakes his head silently.  After 9.5 years together, I understand that he is quietly communicating that I should not release the murderous rage.

I take the bag from her with a forced smile and Chris and I start to walk out of the store. 
"Good for you for not killing her."
"I know, right?"
"So...mature -" he says slowly, and realizes that he's just called me a name that has the potential to freak me out.
"Maybe mature isn't bad.  I don't have to go to jail today.  Mature could be good."
"True.  Mature could be good."

So on my birthday, I was felony free. 
That's a good birthday.