You know who you are

I like to think of myself as a glass-half-full kinda gal. Did you ever see the episode of Friends where Phoebe stays on hold for two days? (OK, I’m exaggerating. But it was a long stinkin’ time.) I do that. I find it hard to hang up because I believe if I just stay on the line, I’ll be the next one. Call me eternally optimistic (or naive if you’d like).

So I took my naively optimistic self shopping for new work clothes because childbearing has wreaked havoc upon my body. I searched (and searched and searched) for pants while Mayer took a siesta in the shopping cart. After deciding I should go on a 1,000-calorie diet and promising to exercise every day if I could only fit into non-double digit trousers (which didn’t happen, by the way. That’s another story.), I made my way to the fitting room and saw only one (currently occupied) handicapped-accessible stall.

So I waited.

(On a side note, I tried on a pair of jeans yesterday at a store and almost choked when the fitting-room attendant asked if I wanted to take Mayer into the fitting room with me. Ummm…no. I’ll just leave her out here, thanks.)

I checked my facebook messages from my phone. I made mental notes of which tops I could wear with which bottoms. I watched the lady in the handicapped stall shuffle her legs in and out of approximately 72 pairs of pants. I checked the time on my phone.

I’d been waiting for 15 minutes.

I debated whether or not I should head over to the mens fitting room, but figured she’d be done in just a minute. After all, a shopping cart could only hold so many pairs of pants, no? Time check: 20 minutes. Thank God Mayer was still snoozing. Then I felt bad because Fitting Room Hog could have a baby in her shopping cart too.

I decided to do one last lap around the store to see if anything else caught my eye. Upon my return, I checked the time. 30 minutes. Holygoodgracious. Finally, I see her dirty feet slip her sandals back on. (Public Service Announcement: Please be kind to other people’s eyes and ensure your feet are clean when wearing anything less than a steel-toed boot.) 

She opens the door (at 35 minutes, if you’re still counting) and wheels her cart out of the door. I see about three things in there, and a baby is not one of them. I give her the evil eye and wheel my sleeping beauty in the stall. Fitting Room Hog has left all 72 pairs of pants in the stall. After seeing the condition of her feet, this doesn’t surprise me.  I won’t lie — I wanted to dump my half-full glass on her head.

So.

The moral of the story is, if you don’t have a stroller or shopping cart with a kid in it, please don’t use the handicapped stalls. I realize I’m not handicapped myself, but I read somewhere that people frown upon leaving kids by themselves in stores.

This also goes for elevators. If nothing traveling with you has wheels, please use the stairs or the escalator. It’s actually faster than waiting for the elevator anyway.

Now, deep cleansing breaths…

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