I live in a small town. The only department store to speak of within an hour from my house is Wal-Mart. When we take a trip to the “big city,” my boys marvel at elevators, escalators, and spinning doors like Will Farrell’s Elf character. Yeah, we need to get out more, but you try traveling with three boys under the age of ten. It’s like herding cats.
I haven’t always been a hick from the sticks. I used to live in Seattle and I worked in Bellevue, so when I went to spend the Nordstrom gift certificate I got for Christmas, I thought I knew what to expect. I thought wrong. It was a revealing experience, in more ways than one.
On a recent, rare trip to the “big city,” we stopped at the Bell-Square Mall, in Bellevue. For those of you who don’t know, Bellevue likes to think of itself as the Beverly Hills of Washington State. When I walked in, I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. There were people walking around with little lap dogs in their purses, and large poodles on leashes. The only other time I’ve ever seen a dog in a restaurant or store, they were attached to a blind person. These Bell-Square dogs were not service dogs. They barked and pooed right there in the mall. Revelation number one: Apparently rich people do not have to be sanitary in public.
I knew my $100 wouldn’t go far at Nordstrom, so I planned to spend my gift certificate on a couple pairs of overpriced flip flops. Revelation number two: Bell-Square Nordstrom does not sell flip flops. I guess they are considered the footwear of Plebeians.
No problem. I needed a navy blue tank top. I headed toward the clothing section. One of the many eager sales ladies there helped me out. She handed me a plain blue tank top that cost $120. I tried not to flinch as a torrent of questions flashed in my mind. Is it bullet proof? Does it perform liposuction? Will it induce a religious experience? The sales lady explained that it was made from top-of-the-line Egyptian cotton. Right. That explains it. I passed. I can buy approximately 24 navy blue tank tops at Wal-mart for that price.
I went to plan C. As I wandered through the lingerie section, I noticed that many of the bras fell in my $100 price range. A super duper Nordstrom bra would be sure to perform miracles. The sales lady offered to give me a fitting. Revelation number three: Getting fitted for a Nordstrom bra involves getting naked in front of a complete stranger. Oh well, who needs dignity? I was going to get a bra made for a rich person.
The fitting started out great. When she told me my size, the numbers indicated I was skinnier and more well-endowed than I thought. Sha-zam! I felt pretty good as she flitted off to find something in my size.
When she came back she slipped several different bras on me. With each one she tugged and pulled and was not at all satisfied. “You need more lift.”
Sha-zing! Not a surprising observation, but it still stung a bit. She flitted off again and returned with more candidates. Again, she tugged and pulled and was not satisfied. “You need more shape.”
Shaz-ow! What? I’m like National Geographic here? Another sting. More bras were brought. Finally, she settled on a piece. “It’s the best I can do because you’re uneven.”
Sha-plththth! Revelation number four: I should not be spending money on a new bra. I should be saving up for plastic surgery.
“How does it feel?” she asked. Well, I felt like cramming that hoity-toity bra up her wazoo. But as I slipped my $3 Wal-mart t-shirt on over the expensive lingerie, I realized that it felt fabulous, so I bought it.
I left Nordstrom a little wiser, a little perkier and more shapely, but still a hick.
I haven’t always been a hick from the sticks. I used to live in Seattle and I worked in Bellevue, so when I went to spend the Nordstrom gift certificate I got for Christmas, I thought I knew what to expect. I thought wrong. It was a revealing experience, in more ways than one.
On a recent, rare trip to the “big city,” we stopped at the Bell-Square Mall, in Bellevue. For those of you who don’t know, Bellevue likes to think of itself as the Beverly Hills of Washington State. When I walked in, I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. There were people walking around with little lap dogs in their purses, and large poodles on leashes. The only other time I’ve ever seen a dog in a restaurant or store, they were attached to a blind person. These Bell-Square dogs were not service dogs. They barked and pooed right there in the mall. Revelation number one: Apparently rich people do not have to be sanitary in public.
I knew my $100 wouldn’t go far at Nordstrom, so I planned to spend my gift certificate on a couple pairs of overpriced flip flops. Revelation number two: Bell-Square Nordstrom does not sell flip flops. I guess they are considered the footwear of Plebeians.
No problem. I needed a navy blue tank top. I headed toward the clothing section. One of the many eager sales ladies there helped me out. She handed me a plain blue tank top that cost $120. I tried not to flinch as a torrent of questions flashed in my mind. Is it bullet proof? Does it perform liposuction? Will it induce a religious experience? The sales lady explained that it was made from top-of-the-line Egyptian cotton. Right. That explains it. I passed. I can buy approximately 24 navy blue tank tops at Wal-mart for that price.
I went to plan C. As I wandered through the lingerie section, I noticed that many of the bras fell in my $100 price range. A super duper Nordstrom bra would be sure to perform miracles. The sales lady offered to give me a fitting. Revelation number three: Getting fitted for a Nordstrom bra involves getting naked in front of a complete stranger. Oh well, who needs dignity? I was going to get a bra made for a rich person.
The fitting started out great. When she told me my size, the numbers indicated I was skinnier and more well-endowed than I thought. Sha-zam! I felt pretty good as she flitted off to find something in my size.
When she came back she slipped several different bras on me. With each one she tugged and pulled and was not at all satisfied. “You need more lift.”
Sha-zing! Not a surprising observation, but it still stung a bit. She flitted off again and returned with more candidates. Again, she tugged and pulled and was not satisfied. “You need more shape.”
Shaz-ow! What? I’m like National Geographic here? Another sting. More bras were brought. Finally, she settled on a piece. “It’s the best I can do because you’re uneven.”
Sha-plththth! Revelation number four: I should not be spending money on a new bra. I should be saving up for plastic surgery.
“How does it feel?” she asked. Well, I felt like cramming that hoity-toity bra up her wazoo. But as I slipped my $3 Wal-mart t-shirt on over the expensive lingerie, I realized that it felt fabulous, so I bought it.
I left Nordstrom a little wiser, a little perkier and more shapely, but still a hick.
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