Get This Thing Off!

I went to Ross recently and bought some clothes because I was in desperate need (every pair of jeans I owned had holes in them – though, to be fair, some I purchased that way). When I got home to admire my new bounty (girls do that), I realized that the stupid little grey plastic security thingy was still attached to a sweatshirt like one of those little baby koalas to it’s mothers back. And I hear that if you try to pry it off yourself, ink will spray everywhere. What! So, it’s just ruined for everyone? Criminals need to be warm too, ya know!

Not saying that I’m a criminal or anything. I paid for that sweatshirt. I have the receipt right…wait, I just had it…Oh, here it…no. Crap.

So I take it back to the store to have the little thingy that’s clinging to the sweatshirt like some sort of strange, ugly bug removed, my friends, Amanda and Charlie, coming along for moral support (and the fact that they never – and I mean NEVER – pass up an opportunity to go bargain shopping). Right when I walk in the door the alarm goes off. Huh, that’s funny, I don’t remember an alarm going off when I left the store with this stupid baby koala attached to my sweatshirt like a Sea Beast wrapping it’s tentacles around an unsuspecting ship. Whoever invented that Anti-Theft Device should be killed. Too much?

I explain myself to the Sales Lady and she refers me to Security.

Perfect.

So then strolls over a man wearing a navy blue bomber jacket with a thin black mustache (I immediately began to fear for the girl he tied to the railroad tracks) and a look of “seriousness usually associated with unabridged dictionaries and old gorillas.” (Pessl, 2006)

“What seems to be the problem, young lady?”

“H-Hello, Sir. Well, it seems as though…I was just wondering if…Can you take this off, please?”

“Do you have the receipt?”

“Uh, well, no, but that’s only cuz I threw it away. But I totally bought this sweatshirt. I was with my mom and, um, we were shopping, and then, uh, we paid for it with…money. Promise.”

Let’s just say it took some serious persuasion, mostly on Amanda's part (I think there may have been some bribery involved at one point but, due to post-traumatic stress on my part, I can't exactly remember) before Bruce Willis allowed the Sales Lady to disengage the ink-bomb that was attached to my sweatshirt.

But then we decided to stay and go shopping. NOT my idea.

He already suspects (if only in the back of his mind) that I am a thief. Not only that, but a thief whose gotten away with her thievery in his store. So, of course, I assume he is watching me like a hawk, ready to swoop down and pull the multi-colored glass rooster (original value $49.99 - now marked down to $7.50!) out of my jacket pocket. Hey, how’d that get in there?

Have you ever noticed that when someone suspects you of something, you can’t help but confirm their fears by acting suspicious? Even if you’re completely innocent. You can feel you’re being watched and you begin to think of all the things you shouldn’t do to attract unnecessary attention and then, for whatever reason, that’s all you seem to be able to do.

Looking over my shoulder a bunch would seem suspicious. So, naturally, I do that. Watching people from the corner of my eye only to quickly look away when they notice is probably a bad idea. Check. Putting my hands in my pocket and out again repeatedly would seem strange. Done and done. Looking at the security camera entirely too many times may not be wise. And…Action!

I was so paranoid and aware of my every action that I started to feel unnatural. Robotic. Nothing looks less casual than trying really hard to appear casual. I couldn’t wait to leave. I started sweating, I think. When we did finally leave, I made an attempt to seem as unbulky as possible, streamlining my coat so there was no way that anything was hidden underneath it or in the pockets.

As we passed under the florescent lighting into the cool night air and I was finally free, I noticed the security guard outside smoking a cigarette and chatting up some chick.

Sigh.



-Age