Identity Crisis

I was in our local mall, minding my own business and generally expanding the economy during the xmas season, when I accidentally strolled too close to a vendor cart. Usually, I'm good about making my way past these free-standing vendors but this one had three people working it and their event horizon beyond which only sadness can be found was larger than I anticipated. Woe!

This particular cart was flogging home nail care salon kits. The pseudo-parisien sales weasel immediately began asking me if I was shopping for my wife. "No, two husbands." This usually disrupts the sales pitch long enough for me to chew my foot off and escape the snare trap. Not this time. This salesguy was surprisingly resilient.

"No problem! This would be an ideal gift for sisters, mothers, grandmothers, office gift exchanges and more! Any woman on the planet would love to have this! Here, let me show you..."

Seriously, I thought I'd have more time to think of a means of escape. I failed utterly. It's been a full year since the last holiday shopping and most of that was done online: I'm out of practice dealing with sales people in person. He had me trapped.

By way of a demonstration, he borrowed my left hand. I thought about tossing the shopping bags in my right hand at him but I had already spent a large amount of money on those, causing me to hesitate. Perhaps tripping a little old lady... alas, none were present. Damn!

I zoned out on his sales spiel while he demonstrated the nail buffer pad on my left thumbnail. I remember his lips moving but I was in shock: I can't remember a word.

With a deft swipe of an alcohol pad, he revealed my thumbnail.

OMFG.

It's polished and shiny.

I feel like my masculinity has been stripped away. (Quiet, bitches.)

Seriously, I keep looking at my hand and cringing. WTF?! This isn't right! Make it stop!

I don't even remember the next half-hour. I'm sure I just stumbled away stunned, staring with horror at my thumb, returning to my car on autopilot while holding back the tears of shame until I was safely home.

As soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to find some fine grain sandpaper to return my hands to their normal non-eight year old schoolgirl form.

Identity Crisis

I was in our local mall, minding my own business and generally expanding the economy during the xmas season, when I accidentally strolled too close to a vendor cart. Usually, I'm good about making my way past these free-standing vendors but this one had three people working it and their event horizon beyond which only sadness can be found was larger than I anticipated. Woe!

This particular cart was flogging home nail care salon kits. The pseudo-parisien sales weasel immediately began asking me if I was shopping for my wife. "No, two husbands." This usually disrupts the sales pitch long enough for me to chew my foot off and escape the snare trap. Not this time. This salesguy was surprisingly resilient.

"No problem! This would be an ideal gift for sisters, mothers, grandmothers, office gift exchanges and more! Any woman on the planet would love to have this! Here, let me show you..."

Seriously, I thought I'd have more time to think of a means of escape. I failed utterly. It's been a full year since the last holiday shopping and most of that was done online: I'm out of practice dealing with sales people in person. He had me trapped.

By way of a demonstration, he borrowed my left hand. I thought about tossing the shopping bags in my right hand at him but I had already spent a large amount of money on those, causing me to hesitate. Perhaps tripping a little old lady... alas, none were present. Damn!

I zoned out on his sales spiel while he demonstrated the nail buffer pad on my left thumbnail. I remember his lips moving but I was in shock: I can't remember a word.

With a deft swipe of an alcohol pad, he revealed my thumbnail.

OMFG.

It's polished and shiny.

I feel like my masculinity has been stripped away. (Quiet, bitches.)

Seriously, I keep looking at my hand and cringing. WTF?! This isn't right! Make it stop!

I don't even remember the next half-hour. I'm sure I just stumbled away stunned, staring with horror at my thumb, returning to my car on autopilot while holding back the tears of shame until I was safely home.

As soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to find some fine grain sandpaper to return my hands to their normal non-eight year old schoolgirl form.