Swing Low, Sweet Chariots

A woman, perhaps in her mid 50’s or so, walks into the fitting room. I am only three or four hours into my all-day shift, and the day has already been a egregiously long one. It plunges out even longer into the depth of eternity as I am told to go back down to the Fitting Room of Platitudes to humor a never-ending line of middle aged women who apparently need me to tell them if the jeans that are clinging Dangerously to their rear ends are too tight, the swimsuit they are currently modeling for me is supposed to cling to their thighs like that or whether or not the dress they have picked out is cute enough to wear to a wedding next month that is set during mid day - so neither a morning nor an evening wedding - PANIC, will this dress properly match the time of day?! Roll over economic crisis and bubonic plague, now *this* is truly a dilemma.

But then this woman walks in. We’ll refer to her from henceforth as SOB, an acronym which will becoming glaringly clear in all too short a time. She’s carrying with her two sweaters. One, a size medium, she has already purchased via the catalog. She has picked up a small today to see if it fits better. Reasonable enough. SOB comes out of her fitting room and calls me over to evaluate the sweater in size small. It is a black, snap-button, three quarter length sweater/blouse with about four layers of white lacy ruffles regaling the front of it. Not gonna lie (to you, Dear Reader), it’s fondly grabbing at her chubby bits on her stomach. Of course such comments as these are not helpful to the consumer. Instead, I inquire about her comfort level and whether or not she can breathe.

“Okay, well let me just show you the medium too, so we (yes, WE, we are a team now, it seems.) can compare. Let’s see… yes, now, here’s the medium…” And before I can utter the happy two syllable word that is universally understood all over the world as a word of assent and agreement, before I have the blessed two second opportunity to leave the room, in a flurry of white ruffles, button snaps and wrinkly skin, SOB has WHIPPED off her shirt. What presents itself to my eyes, what is now seared into my retinas is the the sight of SOB: SAGGY. OLD. BOOBS. (hurrah more google hits!). SOB has apparently discarded the idea of wearing underwear all together. I tremble at the thought of her trying on trousers. The thoughts running through my head are in large capital letters, perhaps in a lovely shade of vermillion: “MY EYES!!!! MY EYESSSS!!! WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU NOT WAIT UNTIL ME AND MY PRECIOUS, ONCE YOUNG, FUNCTIONING AND VIVACIOUS EYES HAVE LEFT THE FITTING ROOM!??!?!!? WHY, WHY SOB?!?! WHY?!?!”

I gather my eyeballs up from the floor of the fitting room, fit them rather hastily and uncomfortably back into my head and turn and shuffle from the vicinity, rather scarred and taken aback. SOB leaves a few minutes later, but not before thanking me for my enlightening, wonderful assistance.

Lesson of the day is: Chances are, those jeans that you’re trying on? That adorably cute top that you just brought home? SOB tried it on, danced around the fitting room a bit and she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Wash your clothes, Dear Reader, wash your clothes. Her chariots could not have swung much lower without falling into the ocean.