Look! I'm linking!

My friends over at Box Box Stick (annnnnnnnd...I just got what that means when you have two girls and one guy as your cast. Neat.), just put up their first podcast. It's basically just them talking about their days, their lives, their favorite drinks, etc., but they happen to be naturally delightful and funny people (as all my friends are. except that one -- you guys know who I'm talking about...). Moral of the story: you should check them out.

Anyways, Becca was talking about this lady who came in to return something at the baby boutique where she works. The problem with this interaction was that the return item was over a year old. The company whose name was on the onesie or the goofy hat -- or whatever it was that had come from the baby store in some forgotten and long-past era -- didn't even exist anymore. But the woman was quite insistent that it was within her rights to return it, and even got a little bit rude. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty horrible experience for poor Becca, and I felt bad for her, really, but at the same time...I kind of love that random return woman.

Really, who has the cajones to do something like that?

"Yes, I realize it was handsewn by palace maidens in the dark ages, and yes, I do realize that no self-respecting baby would wear this particular style of goofy hat in this day and age, but, you see, I simply don't want it anymore." Her kid had probably worn it and outgrown it ("Oh, the tooth-marks? And the fraying? I take no responsibility for the fact that your store sells raggedy things."). I just have to admire her a little bit.

I rarely return things, even when they are brand new. In fact, the entire shopping experience is something of a challenge for me because, rather than going into a store with the goal of purchasing something, I go in with only the overwhelming desire to make the salespeople like me.

It's probably disgusting to watch me in a store; I creep noiselessly from rack to rack, trying not to disturb the salespeople. They ask if I need help, and I say, "Oh! No need, I can get it!" as I try unsuccessfully to find things in my size or pull a box off the top shelf. I kowtow, I grimace, I scrape.

The dressing room is even worse, particularly in small stores, where you have to leave the safe confines of your personal cube and walk into the store to see a mirror. They always have an opinion (usually something along the lines of, "You should totally buy that!"), and it always kills me to disagree. "Yeah! I mean, the whole 'doesn't actually button right over my boobs' thing is totally in, right?!" or "Oh, definitely, I mean, I've been looking for a dress with strategically placed crotchal pockets [true story]!"

And then there are the returns. When asked why I am returning their perfectly fine product, I can never just say, "Buyer's remorse." or "Well, I didn't want it and was bullied into it by a salesperson." I always need a story. A favorite of mine is that I bought it for my sister (conceivably a twin, since the shirt or skirt being returned is obviously in my size), who decided she didn't like it. I like this one because it moves the blame onto someone else, and I can sit and commiserate with the checkout girl about what a fool the sister is to not want such a great item.

I don't know why I do this. Someday soon, I'm going to have to accept that it's the salespeople's job to accept returns. Or I'll just have to get over my aversion to the crotch-pocket dress that is currently taking up space in my closet.