Sincerity through clenched teeth (pt. 1)
She’s looking at me. I can feel her eyes roam up and down my body. She’s definitely sizing me up. I have to admit that I don’t normally have people looking at me that way. Some people might find it amusing. I, on the other hand, find it unsettling.
She makes her way towards me - heel toe, heel toe. A second skin comprising of a tight black shirt and pants cover her body. Shoulder length, blonde hair, light green eyes and full, red lips make up her model-ready features. Her mouth opens and she smiles. Her teeth are a brilliant white.
I don’t know what to say. I freeze. I am not normally used to this kind of attention.
She’s about to speak. Oh, God, what the hell am I going to do? I am about to freak out, crash through the doors, and run down the street with my arms flailing about and screaming nonsensical rants.
I don’t need her taunting me this way. All I need is a new pair of pants.
To describe the reasoning of my actions, I must first explain something: I love to shop, but I hate to shop for anything specific. That takes time. If I have to remain in a store for more than 10 minutes, I begin to panic.
Why? Sales associates. I avoid sales associates like the plague. You can’t outrun them. They know your every move. It’s like chess without rules. I’m a pawn.
Some of them are there to help you. They seem friendly and concerned. They attempt, rather valiantly, to decipher your desires: cheap, black, on sale, one-of-a-kind, reduced in price, etc.
Some of them exist to lower your self-esteem while trying to sell you everything, even if you don’t need it, want it, like it, or use it. You are a walking commission. They make the corporate honchos at every credit card company deliriously happy because you spend way too much money out of guilt and now can’t pay your minimum required payment. God bless shallow capitalism.
Normally, taking a few steps into a store doesn’t bother me. I look around every possible corner, table and service desk for any possible signs of human activity. If no one is around, then I am fine. I plan my way through the mazes of racks, stacks, and rows of slacks until I make it from the front to the back.
When my mental clock reaches the nine minute mark, things get ugly. It is here where newfound levels of fear accumulate. My palms start to sweat. My heart beats erratically. I look around for them. They sense my fear. My vision blurs. The room starts to spin. It feels like the beginning of a panic attack.
But, not this time...
She makes her way towards me - heel toe, heel toe. A second skin comprising of a tight black shirt and pants cover her body. Shoulder length, blonde hair, light green eyes and full, red lips make up her model-ready features. Her mouth opens and she smiles. Her teeth are a brilliant white.
I don’t know what to say. I freeze. I am not normally used to this kind of attention.
She’s about to speak. Oh, God, what the hell am I going to do? I am about to freak out, crash through the doors, and run down the street with my arms flailing about and screaming nonsensical rants.
I don’t need her taunting me this way. All I need is a new pair of pants.
To describe the reasoning of my actions, I must first explain something: I love to shop, but I hate to shop for anything specific. That takes time. If I have to remain in a store for more than 10 minutes, I begin to panic.
Why? Sales associates. I avoid sales associates like the plague. You can’t outrun them. They know your every move. It’s like chess without rules. I’m a pawn.
Some of them are there to help you. They seem friendly and concerned. They attempt, rather valiantly, to decipher your desires: cheap, black, on sale, one-of-a-kind, reduced in price, etc.
Some of them exist to lower your self-esteem while trying to sell you everything, even if you don’t need it, want it, like it, or use it. You are a walking commission. They make the corporate honchos at every credit card company deliriously happy because you spend way too much money out of guilt and now can’t pay your minimum required payment. God bless shallow capitalism.
Normally, taking a few steps into a store doesn’t bother me. I look around every possible corner, table and service desk for any possible signs of human activity. If no one is around, then I am fine. I plan my way through the mazes of racks, stacks, and rows of slacks until I make it from the front to the back.
When my mental clock reaches the nine minute mark, things get ugly. It is here where newfound levels of fear accumulate. My palms start to sweat. My heart beats erratically. I look around for them. They sense my fear. My vision blurs. The room starts to spin. It feels like the beginning of a panic attack.
But, not this time...
Authored by S at 12:00 am
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