I'm Not a Girl

     I am not your typical girl. I have never had a manicure or pedicure in my life, not even for my high school prom, an average haircut is my Supercut's stylist's interpretation of an inch after my mom has pleaded that I do something with the damn dead ends, I couldn't tell the difference between a Coach, Fendi or Walmart bag, have no idea what Diane Von Furstenberg's hottest colors this summer will be, or if she even designs for summer and I believe the words what the hell is Burberry escaped my lips this year, only to be followed by gasps from my surrounding crowd (men included). I'll wear the same pants more than once without washing them, and by pants I mean jeans, though I'm pretty sure they don't make anything else, I rotate about five different long or short sleeved shirts of various shades of blue a week, it does bring out my eyes, and you never can tell what the weather will be in the tropical tundra of the Northeast, but most importantly, I find my three different styles of Converse to be quite the suitable foot attire for all my just rolled out of bed had nothing else to put together wrinkled looks. These fun facts always seem to astound the people I tell, and when asked why, you know what I get nine times out of ten? You do wear makeup. News flash: doesn't mean I've ever entered any Miss Whatever the Hell Contests or that I take the pink Barbie Doll convertable with Kelly, Donna and Brenda to the mall everyday. This brings me to the ever oh so enthralling feminine topic of shopping. It's the one subject I've found to make most girls pee in their pants with excitement, while sending shivers down my spine and making me rather stab my self in the eye repeatedly with a butter knife while walking on a bed of hot coals juggling pin-pulled grenades to When the Saints Go Marching In. Who in their right mind could find any enjoyment in a massive mob of ticked off women fighting for the last pink ruffle sock just because it says "hottie," it's on clearance, and you'll get to save a quarter? What about the pushy ass sales associates? Sometimes I just want to enter a store and quietly, uninterruptedly browse, I know what I like, I know what I want, I live with me. I definitely do not need Candy following me around the damn store, popping out of displays, from behind racks and dropping from the ceiling to point out the lastest deals, which since I am not a moron, I've been able to read on every one of the giant colorful obtrusive model ladened signs posted throughout the store. My favorite line has to be, "I'm so and so, if you need anything let me know," this will be heard at least six times as you shop in that store by each one of the six sales robots. At first you might think they're all so helpful, until you go up to the register to make your purchase and the cashier asks who if anyone has helped you today...what? You mean to say they were all just trying to get credit for assisting me, funny thing is, I just don't remember any actual help, just annoying stalking, startling pouncing and I can't remember for the life of me name dropping. The best moment has to come when you do stumble across something that you guess will do, and now you're tortured with the idea of a fitting room. Why would you want to wait in a long line, or even better hunt down Candy, who has now become elusive when it comes to getting a damn key to open up a room that only supplies poor fluorescent lighting and fun house mirrors? These of course, are meant only to make you feel horrible in something you never really liked in the first place, but since you need something for the Christening and the thought of spending another moment in this hell on earth is beyond anything you'd ever consider, you take it, who wouldn't want to look like orange cotton candy on steroids at church?  The grand finale comes in the purchase of the item you do not actually want. It is an art. You examine all the lanes, the people who reside there and the lengths they have grown to, and from prior experience you chose the one you feel will get you out of purgatory the quickest, but if experience has taught you anything, you will make the worst choice of your life at the picking of the right register. You inevitably will be stuck behind someone with more coupons than any newspaper has ever held, someone who is positive this namebrand item was on sale and now it's a must for an associate to go track down what will always result in the storebrand's item being the one on sale, someone who wants to use their credit card, but cannot work the credit card machine, and thus will have to try it at least a dozen times before it dawns on the associate to take the damn card out of the moron's hands and do it themselves, you know they can, right?? The best though has to be the person who wants to sign up for the store's own card to get their ten percent off today's purchase, insisting on doing it right then and there  with the throngs of onlookers in their line patiently biting their lips and mumbling obscentites to those in front and behind them, they most certainly will be elderly, will not know their own addresses, and will be screaming..."I think it's 55 Maine Street, but maybe it's 59, well there's a 5 in it and it's a white house with green shutters, and it's just me and...," and what...you never lock the doors, you're not home before five...can you repeat that, I don't think the burgular in aisle four heard you. Eventually you do escape the seemingly endless nightmare and you swear on everything you've seen and know that this will never happen again, but on your way home you remember, you need shoes.