BEING PRODUCTIVE ON SALE

I admitted yesterday that I am a jeans kind of gal.  I also have mentioned that the temperatures here have been sub-zero at best, so going outside is pretty much against the law.  My intent is to stay inside and tear my den into a million fragments.  Okay, it's not really a den.  It used to be my bedroom rather than a child's room because it is the room with half a ceiling (under the eaves) and it's the farthest from an exit in case of a fire.  Better mom than children jumping out the window in an emergency.  Now, though, it's more of a glorified closet.  Anyway, the glorified closet project plus the weather equals my great idea to stay at home one more day.

Until my son says, "I need boxers.  I don't know where all of mine went."  (I do.  They disappeared into the Vortex of Oblivion and Perpetual Piles, the nether region of post-college life wherein a human form of Tasmanian Devil resides.)  For some reason inexplicable to any mind but that of the young adult, he needs these boxers right ... this ... second.  Oh, and if I just happen to be going to the store, might I get a dozen or so pairs of Nike white athletic socks, please and thank you.

I hate shopping.  I've said it many times before, but it is a sentiment that bears constant repeating.  Hate.  It.  Hate, hate, hate.  Avoid it like it's one of Dante's Circles of Hell.  But, I have a coupon, so there's no time to waste!  I get myself dressed, run out quickly to start the car (because my "remote start" means I go someplace remote where the car is parked and actually turn the key in the ignition) so my ass won't freeze to the seat when I finally get out there after letting the car sit idle for two days in subzero conditions.

When I get inside of the store, there are sales going on in every department.  I decide that the kid needs some new work pants.  This is more for me than for him: the more pairs of pants he has, the more I can iron and prep ahead of time for some mornings off.  Same with the shirts; more dress shirts for him means less morning stress for me because he will have a bunch already ironed and queued up.  I decide I will only buy if things are on sale.

Things are on sale.

I find him two pairs of pants, then I find four dress shirts that should do nicely.  Oh yeah, socks and boxers, also on sale, and then over to get a baby gift because Carters are on sale, and we all know about Carters.  I am rounding the corner, minding my own business, when I forget which store location I am in.  I am expecting to pass the young men's department, but instead I am at the section where I usually buy clothes when I'm here (which is rarely because I detest shopping, especially for clothing).

What the heck.  Maybe I can find just one pair of pants on sale.  I scour the racks, hoping for a match with the corduroys since it has been so bloody cold at work.  Nope.  Nothing.  Phew.  Turning to head toward the checkout, which is within arms' reach, I see a sale on colored jeans.

It's okay.  They won't have my size, and, even if they do, they won't fit.

I take a giant armful into the changing room with me.  No way am I doing my usual "try on stuff then re-dress to go find different sizes."  No way.  If these pants don't fit, too bad, I'm moving on.  I try on nine pairs, five of which fit and look decent.  And they're on sale.  And I have a coupon.  Score.

Next up I see a bunch of v-neck shirts.  Sure, they're short-sleeved, but my original plan for today was to sort out my sweaters and get them all organized along with adding some more storage to the den.  I am getting tired of pulling the crew-neck shirts away from my throat; the neckline is like a perpetual strangulation.  I can wear these short-sleeved shirts with sweaters (and new pants) and be perfectly content at work and not feel like I'm close to death by choking.

I pop every pattern of shirt into the merchandise mesh bag I am carrying.  I mean, I didn't get a cart.  I came in for boxers and socks.  Why would I need a carriage?

By the time I haul all of my purchases to the conveyor belt at the check-out, I have seven pairs of pants, a baby gift, six boxers, a dozen pair of socks, four dress shirts, ten work shirts, and I'm sure there is probably something else I've forgotten.  I ask the cashier for a flyer so I can cut out the additional $10 clothing coupon to go along with my 20% flyer.

There are no more flyers, so I don't get the $10 off.  Instead, though, the cashier rings in everything, even all of my sale items which is everything, and whacks 30% off the price instead of 20%.  I get out of the store for well under $290 ... and the company issues me another $50 in store bucks to come back and spend more money.

I survive the shopping trip, I don't freak out about things not fitting, and my son and I can go to work wearing something other than the same old same old.  Best of all, the temperature has doubled by the time I leave the store.  Instead of 7 degrees, it's a damn heatwave at 14.  When I get home, I start tearing the den apart, too.  That, my friends, makes for a good day all around.