Old Navy Facists

I hate shopping for dress clothes. It's the worst thing next to being forced to go shopping when you don't have any money. Yesterday, it was both for me. So, because of my financial situation (when I went to the ATM beforehand, my printed receipt contained only a sad face), I needed to buy dress clothes on somewhat of a budget. Enter Old Navy.

I'm ballin' through Old Navy like whoa. Picking out dress slacks, blouses, and other professional attire like the P-I-M-P that I am. I head back to the dressing room and am greeted by a woman, 5'1" at her tallest, donning Old Navy jeans, shirt, jacket, hat, and lanyard. She's an Old Navy Oompa Loompa. If they ever went to war with The Gap or Banana Republic, I know what side she'd be on. I can't help but imagine her amidst the armies of cuordoroy and turtleneck clad warriors, marching forward, bloodthirsty, in scarves and sensible footwear. She would be the Mel Gibson of the bunch, cavallierly slicing off heads with one fell swoop. And then, when all the enemy had fallen, she'd be there to victoriously stick the Old Navy flag in the muddy, blood soaked ground and raise up her weary arms in victory.

"How many you haaave?"

English is her second language. And I don't say this derogatorily, I can only speak one language which is significantly less than two, I say it because I can't totally understand her.

"Um.. let's see. Six?"

"Ooookaaayyeee."

She leads me to a dressing receptacle. Old Navy, in an effort to improve customer service, has added a nice touch. They've put dry erase boards on the outside of the dressing room door so one's name can be recorded. Then, the nominally specified Old Navy customer can be asked, "how's it going in there, (insert customer name here)?" Incredible. I can almost hear the champagne cork that certainly popped when some customer service wizard thought of that one.

"What's your naayeeeeme?"

"Magen."

"How you spell?"

Jesus Christ. I hate everything and everybody everywhere.

"M."

"EeeeehhM...?"

"A."

"Ayeee...?"

"G."

"Geeee...?"

So help me God, if you don't open that door in the next nanosecond...

"E."

"Eeeeee..?"

"N."

"EeeeehN. Good. Ok, Magen.."

She walks away, and mumbles something I am unable to discern. That sounded conspicuously like instructions, I think. Oh well.

I try on my clothes, decide on a couple of things, and walk out with my pile of stuff. She looks up from her folding and is clearly annoyed. Oh no. The standard operating procedure for dressing room attendees, as far as I know, typically involves the attendee asking excitedly, "how'd it go?", as if you've just emerged from birthing your first child because yes, it's that important to them that you've had a wonderful experience inside that dressing room. To which the dresser replies somewhat sheepishly, "Um.. it was ok. I don't think I'll take these." At which point the attendee slyly smiles, takes the unwanted garments, and nods with an air of understanding.

That is the protocol but the Old Navy Oompa Loompa does no such thing. I have somehow unknowingly disturbed the delicate balance that previously existed between dressing room attendants and dressing room attendees.

She huffs and goes back to her folding. Tail between my legs, I set my pile of unwanted stuff down on the table and scurry off, admonished, and not entirely sure of what had just occurred.

Then, the unthinkable happens. As I walk towards the register, I see a pair of pants I like. I sigh, stare at the ceiling for a bit (as if looking for divine guidance), and decide that I can't let this dressing room attendant run my life. I'm going to try these on.

I take a breath, push my shoulders back (to emphasize my height, I've got at least ten inches on her), and march back to the dressing room. She's not happy to see me.

"How manyeee?"

"Two."

"I already erase you naaeeeme. That's why you need to tell me."

My mistake, attendant. You're totally right. I should've said, "Hey, I'm pretty sure I'm leaving, but there's a 7 percent chance that I'll see something I like on the way out and I'll need to come back. So, it's up to you whether or not you erase my name from the board. I wouldn't want you to have to write my name twice, so really put some thought into it. The odds are against me coming back, but if you're the gambling type, you might just wanna go ahead and leave it up there for a few minutes. You know, let it ride."

This is of course what I'm thinking but all I can manage, in barely a whisper, is, "Ssssorry."

"Poot the theengs you don't want over the door. You know, like last time." She distinctly and deliberately pauses here, and then goes back to her folding.

OOOOH.. that's what she said the last time! I try the pants on, and to my great dismay, they look hideous. And now, I have a choice. I can leave the clothes in a pile in the room and really stick it to her once and for all, or I can do as she says and "poot" them over the door.

I take a moment to reflect on this. As Americans, we are taught to consume. We are taught that the key to our happiness is having all the money in the world to buy whatever it is that strikes our fancy. When, for whatever reason, our shopping experience does not fill us with sheer glee, all too often it is the retail employees that catch our wrath. In reality, these people are just the foot soldiers, a mere symptom of a virulent disease that is consumerism, and most of the time have done nothing to draw our ire.

My mini-attendant, I realize, is trying to earn a living like the rest of us. Sure, she's bit obnoxious, but so am I, I can't even follow basic instructions. I put my clothes over the door, thank her politely, and walk out.

I guess I prefer the "kill 'em with kindness" approach to things. After all, I'm not the one that works at Old Navy.