A trip to the Co-op.

I braved the crowds this weekend to go to the Co-op and get national championship "stuff." I bought a t-shirt and a glass to go with the glass my parents gave me from the 1969 national championship that we won. I thought it was from the 1970 championship, but it's from 1969, which is even better, because 1969 is my birth year. I may buy more stuff as time goes by, but I wanted those two things right off (I'm not afraid they'll run out of t-shirts right away, but I didn't know about the glass), so I waded into the mass of humanity.

I managed to grab a shirt I thought would be cute off a table in the center of the store. It was one of those baby-doll cuts, though, so I really wanted to try it on and make sure it wasn't too small. I hate shirts that ride up under my underarm the whole time, but I wanted something a little more fitting and feminine than a regular t-shirt if I could find one. So, I went in search of a dressing room. An employee told me there were dressing rooms upstairs, so I headed up there. The crowds were lighter up there, but I couldn't find the dressing room. So, I see this Hispanic woman standing with her back to the wall who is clearly some kind of employee, though not someone in sales, since she's not actually doing anything. I approach.

"Do you have a dressing room around here?"

"(Mumble, mumble) clinic."

Pause.

"I'm sorry?"

"(Mumble, mumble) clinic."

Blank stare. Clinic? There's a clinic at the Co-op? Why is there a clinic here? And what does that have to do with me trying on my shirt?

Exasperatedly, the woman says, "By the makeup."

I look to my right, and what do I see? A Clinique counter. I'm assuming the dressing rooms are in the vicinity of this Clinic counter, so I head that way. Indeed, they are behind the counter. I try on my shirt, causing my hair to fly in all directions from static electricity. But what do I care? No one is going to try and pick me up in the melee at the Co-op. Shoot, my electric hair may actually draw attention from someone cute. You never know, right?

I head to the counter with my purchase - it's all only taken about 15 minutes. Nice. Unfortunately, it takes me 20 minutes to check out. There were only 3 people in front of me, so I foolishly thought this would be a quick line. I had not anticipated that the clerk had nowhere else to be and would not be concerned that I did. The guy in front of me attended the game and made sure all of us knew it. He and his family spent $489 on merchandise, all of which had to be slowly and individually wrapped and put into bags by The Clerk With Nowhere To Go. These are the moments God gives me to practice the virtue of "patience." Though I wanted to jump behind the counter and check everyone out myself so we could get on with it, I never so much as muttered my aggravation. I even smiled when I finally got to the counter. Aren't you proud of me?

Only those who knew me 10-15 years ago can appreciate the significance of that moment and my reaction. Have you ever seen the movie "French Kiss" with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline?



There's a scene where Meg Ryan is trying to deal with a snooty French hotel concierge, and after he is rude and unhelpful to her one too many times, she screws up her face, and tells him how when he acts like that it makes her CRAZY and begins to ring his little bell incessently. I saw that movie with my friend Vangie, and when that scene came on, she looked at me and said, "That's you." I laughed, completely uninsulted, because she was right.