Had an other-worldly experience today. Come mid afternoon, I realized that I felt more at home in Italy, speaking nary a word of that language, than I did at Plato's Closet in South Lincoln.
What is Plato's Closet, you ask.
Imagine Dante's Inferno with designer jeans and tiny, tight-faced, label-splattered mothers and daughters. Oh, and me and Allison. At Plato's Closet, the "Almost Haves Who Do NOT Want to Be Mistaken for Have-Nots" can compete over a $200 pair of jeans (marked down to $45!!), worn only a few times by someone just a little richer and a tad bit tighter.
It is the middle class's Goodwill without all that pesky charity.
And I could have used a little sweet charity, come 3:30. My ten-minute shopping meter had expired a good 15 minutes earlier but here I was, sitting in a pleather-and-chrome chair, while Allison shopped for some snappy bargains.
I mostly stared down at my practical, kind of man-like shoes ($100 Josef Seibels, on sale for just $30!!), and rugged Woolrich pants (can you say "gansta"?!), wondering how I'd gotten so lost.
To my right were two more-middle-aged-than-they'd-care-to-admit women, whom I assume were sisters, and one of their teenaged daughters. One of the women, with a multi-colored mop of hair, was furiously going through one pair of fashionable jeans after another, each time emerging from her portal to get the inspection tour. (Note: I have NEVER required the input of others in order to decide if a pair of jeans fits.) Her skin was unnaturally dark--even the mild muffin top she sported had a tan to it--and, when I got a close glimpse or two, I could see the wrinkles that her creams had somehow overlooked.
But, boy, did they know their jeans! It's possible I felt a wee bit scared by this fashionista trio.
For the record, I own one pair of Liz Claiborne jeans, bought after my friends Marti and Laura pestered me to hang up the Wranglers. Even though I bought those jeans nearly 8 years ago, I still consider them "new."
On the verge of a social-class asthma attack, I got up and roamed a bit, but found no refuge after overhearing a grandma pester her elementary-aged granddaughter in aisle two (skirts and capris).
"You will NOT wear that thing on MY watch!"
"But, why, grandma?"
"Because a PEDOPHILE will find and ravage you, if you wear those things!!!!!"
I was dizzy by the time we approached the checkout girl, and Allison was being a good, if not slightly disappointed, sport, holding two shirts that soon would be hers (originally, like, a WHOLE BUNCH of money, but only THIRTEEN DOLLARS today!).
We headed to the car and she commented on how obnoxious "those people" were. I casually said something like "I bet it made you glad I am your mom, huh?" She sort of snuffled out an answer that I'm telling myself was a "YES!" and we made our way to Shopko--OUR people--to buy us some ink for the printer and a $2.99 set of tongs for the kitchen.
After making our purchase, I lingered a bit, letting the glorious scent of Lysol and plastic fill me up and renew me.
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