I'm not much in the way of "girlie" things. I don't like chick movies. I'm ambivalent about makeup and I think most magazines should be named A How-to Guide for Blossoming Bulimics.
But I have my weakness. Actually two of them: Shoes and bags. (Not purses but bags. If you need an explanation, ask someone.)
Therefore, DSW is my mecca. My oasis. And my mom always has coupons. How could I not go there?
For those of you who reside under rocks, DSW is an enormous, Costco-sized warehouse full of shoes. Mostly women's, but there is a weeny little section for men. It's the home of "I really don't need another pair of black stilettos (mostly because I'm really gonna hurt myself because I've spent the last two years wearing chef clogs) but I'm going to buy them anyway."
Anyhoo, there we were in DSW. I'm relaxed. I'm looking at black (also red) shoes with heels higher that they're almost guaranteed to sit in my closet.
That's why I selected a pair of Converse with "peace and love" written on the back. What can I say? Too long in chef clogs and comfort wins over fashion. Plus, it's my mom's money and I feel too guilty for her to buy something I'm not going to wear immediately.
Suddenly, I noticed I had a stalker. A fan. Otherwise known as, Mr. Manager Polo Shirt Guy. How did I know this? Because the polo shirt (burgundy, no less) in combination with khaki pants, oh, and the nametag screamed "RETAIL MANAGER."
The way he was following me around he had a mad crush or. . . .he thought I was going to stick the box of Converse down my shorts.
Seeing as he had the Suspicious Wanna Be FBI look, I assumed it was the latter.
My mom was walking around by herself as was I. Therefore, I had no obvious adult supervision. I've got a rather large tattoo on my leg. I look vastly different from the normal clientele. Read I'm not wearing white capris two sizes too small, enormous fake jewelry on my sandals and speaking loud enough for people in Nevada to hear.
He was like my managerial shadow. I'd go into the sock area, he'd go into the sock area. I'd pick up the red pumps (they were cute), he'd arrange the thongs (shoes, not underwear.) I'd walk to the back and guess who was there?
I almost started to try on all the stripper shoes and parade around in them but my coach would knock my teeth out if I cracked my ankle.
When my mom showed up again, he breathed a sigh of relief. I heard it because he was so close.
In the end, I walked out with my Converse. Not on my feet with my sandals in my pockets. They were still in the box and I had a reciept.