Sometimes when I’m really bored I like to find an Abercrombie & Fitch store and pick out a dozen or so pairs of jeans, all in a size two. Then I ask for a fitting room. There is nothing better than the look of utter bewilderment and confusion on the sales clerk’s face as she glances from me to the jeans then back again. I smile demurely as I walk into the fitting room, then I ask casually, “These jeans stretch, don’t they?”
How was I supposed to know that woman was going to faint? Luckily she fell onto a display of tiny little hoodies, so she was perfectly fine.
I actually I have long history with Abercrombie & Fitch. It was almost ten years ago when I first stumbled across one of their stores. I was walking through the beautiful new outdoor mall in my city when I came across this place blasting music and reeking of cheap cologne with huge pictures of half-naked, oiled up men and women on the walls outside. I surmised immediately that this new mall had one heck of a nightclub and I wondered what the cover charge was.
Later that week, my husband (he was still my boyfriend back then) and I had dinner and a few drinks at one of the restaurants in the new mall. I told him about the nightclub at the mall and we stumbled over to it. It was just like the day I found it: music up so loud you could barely hear your own thoughts and cheap perfume seeping from every pore of the place. We walked in and found that there was no cover charge. This club was about to become our new favorite.
A guy approached us, so we tried to order some drinks.
“I’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea,” I said.
“What do you have on tap?” my husband inquired.
“Er, well, I don’t think we have that but jeans are ten percent off this week and we got a new shipment of tees today,” he said and looked like he might cry at any moment.
“This is a club, isn’t it?” I yelled above the keyboard solo that was accosting my ears.
“A club? No, this is Abercrombie & Fitch!” he yelled back with all the teenage angst he carried in his 110lb, 6 foot frame.
My husband and I left, disgraced and a bit shocked.
I dragged my husband back there the next day under the pretense of buying him a shirt. He protested.
“This is a cool kid store. I’ve had the same haircut since I was three; I’m not cool enough for this store,” he explained.
“I know, but I can’t buy something here because it will compromise my values as a woman because this store represents everything that is wrong with society today; this store is packaging and selling low self-esteem!” I said fervently.
“Really?” he asked.
“I don’t know; I read that on the cover of Good Housekeeping when I was in line at the grocery store the other day. The point is, I don’t need another hoodie, I just want to see what’s in that store,” I admitted.
We got about three feet into the store when the guy from the previous night recognized us and we were asked to leave.
Oh well, it wasn’t the first retail establishment I’ve been asked to leave and I’m sure it won’t be the last.