Man Versus Shopping

The sky is slate gray. The air is cool. I look out the car window and squint at the long, low building facing me. I feel like a Clint Eastwood character just before a shootout. I half-expect a tumbleweed to roll by. The dramatic background music reaches its pulse-pounding crescendo. I take a deep breath and turn off the radio. It’s time.

I step out of the car, but I hesitate, my stomach churning. I can still turn back. Maybe I should put it off a little longer. I look at my watch and calculate that I’m already a half-year late. This has to happen now. I set my jaw, like Clint would, and begin to walk across the parking lot. With each step I take, a sharp metallic ring rises up from my feet, slow and rhythmic.

chink…chink…chink...

I look down and kick the annoying loose soda bottle cover away. Soon, I’m across the parking lot and through the automatic sliding doors.

The fluorescent lights are blinding. The floor is polished to a shine. There is clothing as far as the eye can see. My head swims at the sheer artificialness of it all, and I dearly wish that I was still in bed, huddled under a mound of covers, where I wouldn’t have to be so brave.

Kohl’s is a scary place.

I look down at my jeans, which I purchased many years ago. They’re the last pair I own that I can wear in public without risking an indecent exposure charge, and they’re borderline. The small holes in them that appeared months ago are growing larger and can no longer be ignored. The legs are hopelessly shredded at the ends. The entire pair may dissolve at any moment. This gives me the motivation that I need, and I slog onward into the depths of the store, ignoring my unsettled stomach. It’s man versus shopping, not a battle that I wanted, but one that’s been pushed upon me.

I pass several Marc Anthony displays. He looks incredibly pompous, like he expects everybody to bow down before him right then and there. I want to punch the smiling cutout in the teeth, but I figure there are security cameras.

I find the jeans section. It’s huge. Luckily, I’m prepared. I know exactly what I need. I quickly find the Levi’s, along with the right size and style. I smile. My smugness, however, is short lived. Apparently, these jeans are no longer made in normal colors. I can’t even begin to describe the various options, besides to say they’re some horrible mixture of streaked, striped, faded, and torn, obviously designed for “hip” people who are twenty years old and under and also apparently blind.

Minutes later I’m back sitting in my car, muttering, consumed with frustration. If Marc Anthony were to walk by, I would probably hit him with my car. Still, I can’t give up. Clint wouldn’t give up. Perhaps Kohl’s only has a limited selection. Using my phone, I locate a nearby J.C. Penny.

Twenty minutes later, I’m looking at J.C. Penney’s selection of Levi’s jeans in my size and style. They’re all also horrible colors, and it becomes crystal clear that this isn’t a matter of sparse stocking at Kohl’s. This is all there is. I begin to panic, a completely un-Eastwoodesque move, and pick a pair that’s the least unappealing, which is saying very little. I enter the changing room, my mind still trying to catch up with my body’s clearly deranged actions, where I then discover that the jeans don’t even come close to fitting anyway. This is perplexing. I definitely haven’t done a reverse Biggest Loser since I bought my currently dissolving jeans, so the only logical conclusion is that Levi’s has completely changed their sizing, for the sole purpose of driving me crazy.

Time is becoming a critical factor. My current jeans can’t hold out much longer.

tick…tick…tick.

Panic mixes with anger. THIS SHOULDN’T BE SO HARD! I leave the dressing room and replace the jeans. My facial features twitch, and my head snaps back and forth as I desperately search for a miracle that I have no confidence in finding.

Then, when all hope seems lost, in my peripheral vision I see what appears to be an oasis of normalcy. Can it be? Jeans, in the style I need that are also normal colors? I run over, rubbing my eyes. IT IS!! Sure, they’re an inferior brand, but they’re men’s jeans with normal colors that aren’t made to fit like hot dog casings! HALLELUJAH!! I must buy twenty pair!!

I glide to the checkout, my composure fully regained, squinting against the fluorescent glare in a very Eastwoodesque manner. I even manage to ignore smug Marc Anthony. In the battle of man versus shopping, man has prevailed. Victory is mine.

On the way home, I realize that I need dress pants.