Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Shopping and the art of sneaking up on bathing suit season

Last week I talked a bit about the fact I’m not really a skirt person. It might be that I’m not really much of a “shopper” either. I have been told more than once I shop like a guy, and I get the feeling that isn’t a good thing. Now, my best friend shops like it’s an Olympic sport and she’s going for gold. Me? Not so much. So when she suggested we go shopping after dinner last Friday, I agreed, but I knew that I wasn’t going to be buying much. Why did I know this? Because there wasn’t anything I needed.

We hit the mall, and what I knew went right out the window. It seems my friend had a slightly different opinion on what I “needed,” and I left Sephora with…slightly more than I had planned on getting. I’m convinced that she is getting some kind of kickback from that store, because even as I was leaving with my bag of stuff I somehow found myself paying for, she was asking if I didn’t maybe need some new brushes too…or mascara.

Now that you have some idea how my evening was going, it shouldn’t surprise you to know that at the next store, I vowed there would be no more buying. None. Nada. Zip. I wasn’t even going to try anything on. Care to guess how that went?

“You have to try something on,” she tells me. “Pick something.” Next thing I know, I have an armload of bathing suits and cover ups. Oh hell no. This can’t be good. Bathing suit shopping is a hellish experience after three days of fasting and prayers to the gods of weight loss and bloating to be kind. It is not recommended that you try it after dining out on a burger and fries from the mall food court. My ego was whimpering as I headed into the dressing room we were sharing. (It saves a tonne of time avoiding the “Hey, come out here for a second and tell me if this makes me look like an elephant draped in a circus tent” moments.)

The first one I tried on was an ego busting, rib crushing, “please tell me I got the wrong size” experience that will never be spoken of again. The second one, while a bit plain, worked so well I declared myself done and stopped trying on suits. A win! Two suits and finished. This was a great day…considering I wasn’t supposed to be shopping at all. My euphoria lasted until just as we were about to leave to buy our treasures. That’s when my dear, beloved, bestest friend in the whole wide world paused, frowned at the stuff I still had hanging on the wall and said “I don’t remember you trying on that one.”

“I didn’t.” I say, sensing doom approach at high speed.

“That’s a really cute one. I think you should try it on, just in case.”

Ugh. I argued. I waffled…and then I tried on the damned suit anyway because there is no arguing with a shopping guru. The damned thing fit. Perfectly. Awesomely. I’ll be wearing it to Las Vegas this fall for the annual smut writer hang out. It wasn’t until I got to the till that I looked at the price tag and whimpered again.

But hey, I’ve finished bathing suit shopping for the year. I think that’s worth the smoking hole in my credit card. And the next time we go for dinner, I’m leaving my wallet at home.