Wednesday, May 30, 2012

The Anthropologie Club, *Update*

Listen, I realize that Anthropologie is kind of big around these parts. I spent a few years resisting the attraction of overpriced quirky clothing, but finally caved this summer when I spotted some great shirts in the clearance section. (This, despite my previous humiliation while shopping in public.)

So when my mother came down to visit for the holiday weekend, we took an afternoon to check out the local store for some more bargains.

By the time we were done in that store, a mere HOURS later, I stepped up to the sales clerk, arms full of merchandise and heart heavy with buyers remorse. And it was in that moment that I realized I should never, ever return.



In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even be allowed in. Observe.

1. The Fitting Room Experience.

Within 15 minutes of entering the store, I'd already gathered enough dresses, tops, and designer jeans to fill a dressing room. I even clutched some necklaces and perfume, but a manager eyeballed me suspiciously before placing them in open view, just outside my changing room door.

Sporting a reasonably flattering, but ridiculous dress, I stepped out to use the mirror with more light. As I twisted and turned awkwardly, in an effort to assess my ass girth in the shift dress, I overheard another customer chatting with the fitting room attendant. The employee was holding up some prospective outfits for the patron to consider.

"Oh, we're not looking for separates, today. She prefers dresses with a smoother silhouette, though that is a lovely color..."

The situation made me uncomfortable, as do most where people are put in a situation of servitude in the hopes that money will change hands. But, more than that, I was surprise that this older woman was speaking for, what I imagined must be her daughter. I stood there, still straining to see how well the dress hid my thighs, and half expected a pregnant woman or bride-to-be to emerge from the fitting room. But.... no. It was a tweenager that came out with an arm full of rejects, wearing a pair of Keds, a Justin Bieber shirt, and some Umbro shorts.

OMFG.

I DON'T BELONG HERE.

2.  The Wearing of the Clothing.

Then there was the issue of trying on the items I had gathered. Specifically, there was a dress, a shirt, and, what I thought was a skirt, that posed some issues for me. As in, I OBVIOUSLY WAS UNQUALIFIED TO WEAR THEM.

The dress I came out to model? Bared my breasts, almost entirely, and was, in fact, PAJAMAS, according to the attendant.

Alright then.

So I tried again, this time with a skirt and top. Again, I was bewildered by the odd fit of the clothing. I came out with questions for the woman wearing too much jewelry.

"Am I supposed to wear a tank under this, or something," I asked, clutching the front of the shirt closed with a fist.

"Uhm, I think...," she began, making her way over to inspect me, "I think this is on backwards, actually." She located the tag near my navel.

"Oh."

I quickly changed the subject.

"So bummed about this skirt fits funny, too. I usually love these A-line shapes."

"That's actually a dress," she corrected without hesitation.

I slammed the fitting room door to hide the sound of my deflating self esteem. Even the TWELVE YEAR OLD could figure this shit out, you guys. I SWEAR TO GOD IT LOOKED LIKE A SKIRT.


3. The Departure.

Somehow, I mustered the dignity to put my own clothing back on, and made my way out, clutching the sole t-shirt that I was able to wear without direction. I can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure the disapproving eyes of every dressing room inhabitant were upon me as I walked out.

I found my mother, realized the late hour, and we slowly made our way to the register, depositing potential purchases along the way like a trail of unbudgeted breadcrumbs. But before we got to the front of the store, a particularly perky salesperson paused to study us with a perplexed smile.

"How are you ladies doing? Making your way to the register? I've noticed you've been having such fun in here today."

...the hell? I don't know who this woman was or where she'd come from, but I imagine she was part of some sort of Women In Green team in the vein of Men in Black, but for retail reputation maintenance rather than alien life forms. Maybe both. I DON'T KNOW.

My mother and I laughed nervously and fell over each other's words, trying to respond graciously. The clerk didn't pause to listen.

"Well, I must say you've both been very...entertaining to watch today. Hope you had fun!"

So, I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure we've been blacklisted.

UPDATE: Not only did the charges from that day post IN TRIPLICATE to my account this morning, but Anthro also just sent me this email, so obviously they're trying to destroy my marriage.



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Meanwhile...elsewhere on the Interwebs...

At MamaPop, I am STILL talking about Robert Pattinson, but this time it's in regards to The Hunger Games. Dave Annable makes a cameo.

At The Mouthy Housewives, I have some advice for a woman dealing with a clueless-slash-asshole-ish father-in-law that is hijacking her plans for her husband's graduation.