I don't have very thick hair. Now postpartum, I have even less. Yes, it's coming back in but it looks like someone took a weed wacker to my hair line. So anyways, these Bump-its (I made fun of my mom for being mildly interested in them when she saw them on an info-mercial one day) were now being mindlessly thrown into my cart. I could always use a little more volume, I told myself.
Now for the story.
I go to Wal-Mart. Why? Why do I go there? Lauren, this is not a relaxing atmosphere. There is no soft music, only screaming children who seem to have parents wearing ear plugs. What aisle are those on again? Oh, right. You can't hear me? Genius. Stress level not going down. Trust me, I know about screaming kids...two 3 year olds and a nearly 1 year old. I get it. It happens. But it should not happen when I need a break. I know, I know, I asked for it by stepping foot in this super store jungle.
I walk over to the clothing department. I grab an arm-full of things. Summer dresses, tanks, t-shirts, quite a load. I don't normally buy clothes at Wal-Mart, just 'cause they don't stay together, but I was feeling adventurous, so...so, I thought I would torture myself. Little did I know the fun that lie ahead of me.
I walk up to the fitting room desk. It was a madhouse. There at a tiny desk, over-wrought with dressing room paraphernalia, was an older woman talking on a phone- old school phone, like the one I grew up with. Long stretchy, curly cord? Yes, you know. So, I wait patiently...for a minute. I stand and wait for her to address me. I listen to her conversation. It sounded like a non-Wal-Marty call. I was irritated. What? This is not time to catch up with Verna or to check what time the next bridge game is at the senior center. I'm a tired mom who needs to be let into a dressing room. It felt like 10 minutes, but I highly doubt that. It was more around three. She finally looks up at me, like I had just suddenly appeared or something, but I'm thinking its all an act. I mean, my eyes had been boring into her coiffed wig since the beginning of time, I know she knew I was there. Surprise! It's me! Haggard mommy.
She covers the phone with one hand, lowers it, scowls and then proceeds to ask how many garments I have. (Don't let Verna know you're at work!) I fumble through the now-tangled hangers of my "made in Malaysia" merchandise, to find I have nine items.
Her face drops. "You're only really allowed six." She clicks her tongue.
I bore even deeper into her wig, now penetrating to the scalp. It must of worked because then she says, "Okay, you can take nine, but only if you put them away when you are done."
I chuckle to myself. This is ridiculous. Isn't this the place that has their employees wear vests with "May I help you?" stamped on the back? It's more like "Help Yourself", but there aren't any cookies or punch laying round. "Help Yourself to Helping ME Out" is more like it. Maybe I could snag a fruit snack from that poor screaming kid over there.
Alright! Time for a mommy treat. Boy, was I going to be disappointed by this "treat". I should have taken the fruit snacks and ran. A Wal-Mart dressing room is never a treat. I do not understand the dressing room phenomenon. Why, oh why do they use those awful lights that somehow cast the most hideous shadow on my cellulite. I know it's there. I don't like it. I try to get rid of it. Do you want to sell clothes, Wal-Mart? Seriously. Where is the salesmanship in that?
I walked around Wal-Mart so long and I got so tired that when I finally made it home with no purchases and extremely sore legs, I was happy to see my kids and hubby but not cook dinner for them. It was kinda a lose/lose situation except for the laugh I get every time I think of my Bump-it.
