The other night, I was holding down the fort in the lingerie section, trying desperately to make some much needed headway on the disheveled stacks that were still a mess from Monday’s crazed sale. In walks a man holding the hand of his lady, who followed timidly behind him as though he was leading her into the land of the unknown. Ma’am, don’t be afraid, we’re not Sears. As if.
Where Do They Find These People?
Anyway. Being the polite sales associate that I am, I ask if they are looking for anything in particular.
“No,” she stutters. “We’re just browsing.”
“Actually,” he says, as he swerves to miss the display table holding pretty little pieces he probably couldn’t even pronounce. (I know, bi-kee-ni is a foreign word to most humans when placed between terms like low rise and cut.) “Do you have anything on sale?”
I look around the room slowly, letting my gaze pause for a moment on each table marked with signs designating 3 for $15; regularly $8.50 each. Perhaps he’ll get the hint. But he did not. “Yes, we do.” And I point. And then point some more.
A few minutes later, I check on our bright patrons. They are loitering by a display of panties in the girl shorts cut (our version of the boy shorts). He is holding up a few and she is giggling in the you-are-so-embarrassing-me kind of way. I ask if I can help with anything.
He looks at me. “Do you have a butt measurer?” He’s so serious.
I stifle the urge to simultaneously laugh and curse him out the door as I move closer to our now obnoxious couple. “A what?”
“A butt measurer. To know what size she is. Or do you just have to eye them?” He’s still so serious.
I turn to the lady in question and give her a look that demands she speak up before I walk away for good. She proves fruitful. “I usually wear a large, but this large just looks so huge.”
“You could try on a medium and a large. That would give you an idea of what size you are in our lingerie.”
“I don’t want to try them on. That’s why we asked how to know what size.”
Ah, OK then.
After our conversation eventually puts them on the right track, the couple leaves the store with their purchase. Ladies and gentlemen, our 30-year-old man bought his 30-year-old girlfriend the romantic gift of three pairs of cotton panties and a tube of chapstick. And she hated every bit of the process.
Cupid is running away as fast as he can before the urge to smite this couple on several accounts of idiocy becomes his one and only thought.