Nice thing about Christmas shopping is that, when it's all done, you can justify buying yourself a thing or two.
In my case, I wandered into the female apparel store with a gift card from a previous birthday.
Genius! I can get myself a gift without having to spend any more real money!
I quickly tried on a bunch of sale dresses (I love a good dress but hate the ordeal of stripping all my Midwest winter layers), and settled on one little sexy number (well, MY version of sexy, which means it wasn't running tights from Target). And the price was RIGHT ON! I'll take it!
I tried on the second dress - a longer, maxi type dress that was super hot.
Only problem was...it was a touch too big. Needed to be a bit smaller in the empire-type waist.
I put all my regular clothes back on (jeans, hoodie and ball cap), stepped outside of the changing stall, and peered around the corner to see if I could just run to the rack and snatch it quick.
"Can I help you with anything?" asks the tiny are-you-even-legal-working-age pixie from behind me.
"Uh yeah. I was just going to grab a different size for this dress," says I, feeling like Buddy the Elf lumbering around a workshop filled with Santa's helpers.
"Oh, I can get that for you. What size do you need?" offers the pixie, so tiny and petite she makes Tinkerbell look like Brian Urlacher.
"Um sure. I need a size (one size smaller than what I was holding)."
And that's when it happened.
Fucking pixie gave me the Manhattan once over.
THE MANHATTAN ONCE OVER!!!!
THEN, as if dropping the last chunk of coal into a stocking filled with elephant turds, she adds:
Hell NO I didn't just see this child check me out and then question my size!
In my head I responded, "You minuscule lady-child! What the hell was that?!?! What size do I need, you ask? I need size I'm-an-Ironman-who-spends-as-much-time-working-my-ass-off-in-the-gym-daily-as-you-do-applying-your-pancake-makeup. It's a specialty size-do you carry it? I'm not fucking Shrek for crying out loud! Not all small people have to walk around with their boobies hanging out their tops and jeans so tight you are begging for a yeast infection (see also: yourself). Who do you think you are with your "Really?" You, who's biggest life goal is to organize the shoe section before closing so you can rush home to your Camaro-driving-former-football-captain-now-stoner townie boyfriend, pay his rent, and cook his dinner, all with the promise of a ring and a wedding THAT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN. Now go flutter your wings over to that rack and get me my dress, or I will slap that blond right off yo' head."
To her face I said, "Yes, thank you so much."
Merry Christmas and God Bless Us Everyone!