Island Family Shopping

Last weekend, we went shopping at a store that sells relatively reasonably-priced clothes for the whole family, and its name rhymes with Mold Gravy.

I’m not going to get into all of the details, but during our adventure a couple of weeks ago, I accidentally managed to leave a large portion of my summer wardrobe at a location where I will not have access to it again until probably mid-August. This left me with the need to shop. My husband thinks it was intentional, but if he knew how much I dread shopping with the three small people in tow, which was in fact my only option last week, he would know otherwise. My husband, who I have decided to rename Loquacious Cabana Boy because it pleases me to do so, ended up along for the shopping extravaganza, so there we all were, five people in from our small island, snatching up bargains like nobody’s business.

I don’t know why, other than that maybe this is just meant to be one of my small trials in life that will eventually shape me into A Better Person, but the small people cannot seem to enter a store lately without immediately moving into spy mode. There’s no discussion involved; with nonverbal cues like a slight nod and intense eye movement, they instantly break into formation and begin moving through the store on a mission. One of the Island Family rules is no running in stores, so what follows is this strange, elf-like gliding between the racks of clothes that they insist is “not running.” Not running, my hind end. If there was an intense explosion in the store, you’d hardly move any faster, flesh-of-my-flesh.

Naturally, since we were there to shop for me, 90% of what we ended up purchasing was for the small people. I ended up with this.

The small people walked out with this. It was all great stuff, I will admit.

As we were finishing, my husband spotted a swimsuit on the clearance rack that he liked. So, Loquacious Cabana Boy decided to try the swimsuit on. He hesitated for a moment, and said, “Should I just try it on in there?” and pointed to a Quick Change spot nearby.

If you are unaware of what this is, please let me explain. In this Mold Gravy, at least, the regular dressing rooms, with solid doors that lock, are located in the center of the store. On the outer borders of the store are little alcoves with curtains and mirrors inside for if you want to quickly try on a shirt, let’s say, perhaps over the shirt you already have on just to check for approximate size, and you don’t feel like doing it in the middle of the store with everyone staring at you. I’m sure many people, people much more daring than I am, use them as regular dressing rooms, too. But in my opinion, using these to try on swimsuits, like my husband had just suggested, is like asking to be exposed to the world. All it takes is a groping toddler, a distracted, hurried adult, or frankly a small draft, and there you are, saying “hey” to a mixed crowd, in your undies. Or out of your undies.

I gave my husband a look and then explained my concern. You could see, from the look on his face, that he was vacillating between taking my advice and throwing all caution to the wind.

“Besides, it’s being used anyway,” I offered, pointing at the closed curtain, thinking this piece of information would seal the deal for the regular dressing rooms.

“I think the small people just closed it when they were playing their spy game,” he responded. I looked at him, doubtful.

We turned to our kids and asked each of them in turn if he or she had closed the curtain. They all denied any involvement with the curtain.

Then, in defiance of all logic, my husband said, “I still don’t think it’s being used.” How would you respond to a statement like this?

I walked over closer to the curtain. “Okay, I can see the shadow of the person’s movement on the floor underneath the curtain.”

At this, my husband stared at me for a moment, searching my countenance for any signs of dishonesty, then accepted his defeat and headed off, resignation in his shoulders,  toward the respectable dressing rooms. Ultimately, I vetoed the swimsuit because the fact that it “almost fit well” meant that I would have had to hear about its slight inadequacies for the duration of the swimsuit’s partnership with my husband. No thanks, honey.

As we were paying for the clothes we did purchase, I noticed a wall of women’s swimsuits with a sale sign in front of them. Loquacious Cabana Boy (Should I adjust this right now to LCB?) graciously offered to finish the transaction and even manage the small people for a few minutes if I wanted to try some on. I accepted and quickly walked toward the swimsuits before he had time to think and rescind the offer.

Despite my better judgment, I was lured by enticement of 50% off. Oh, and by the colors and patterns which looked oh-so-cute hanging on the rack (Do you sense any foreshadowing here?). I grabbed four suits in varying shades of the aforementioned cute, and headed to the dressing rooms.

There, I was met by a GQish employee, who could be my son from an age standpoint. After determining that all of the dressing rooms were full, he said to me, “Would you like to try a Quick Change room instead?”

I gave him a look.

The girl behind him, who could also be my daughter from an age standpoint, started laughing. No, I would not care to use the dressing room in which all that would separate me from a public indecency charge would be a thin cloth that a light cough could move. I care to use the dressing rooms with solid doors. And locks.

Fortunately for all of us, a dressing room opened up right away and I entered with my suits. However, my stay in the room was short-lived. As soon as I put the first suit on, I held up my white flag. No matter how cute it looked on the rack, it was clearly designed for a sixteen-year-old who will not be required to build sandcastles and body surf with three small people while wearing the suit. See Mothering In A Swimsuit for further thoughts on this topic.

And then, it got worse. I looked down.

I swear to you, on my honor, those dressing room lights give you anticipatory cellulite. I don’t know how they did it, or why anyone would want to know how much cellulite they will have years from now, but whoever designed those light and rooms figured out how to do it. It’s like those age-forward shots that show you how you will likely look in 20 years, but in this case with cellulite.

This was information I was so pleased to have.

With record speed, I changed back into my clothes, handed the suits to my would-be son, and left the store to find my family. Oh, and to bask in the non-cellulite-inducing natural light.