Cause You Know It Don't Matter Anyway

She minced into the store, whipping off a pair of oversized Chanel sunglasses* and tucking them into an equally oversized, overteased hairstyle that was the same texture as fiberglass insulation. She paused just inside the door, scanning the room and trying to balance a Kate Spade tote big enough to actually hold Kate Spade and a single serving of SoyMilk that I assumed was just for show, part of the nouveau bitche playset. I eyeballed her for two ticks before I decided to hate her.

Because we're supposed to 'put the i in customer', a motivational slogan that makes less sense than Adam Sandler's continued employment, I greeted her with an enthusiasm frequently displayed by cocker spaniels and the clinically insane. "Hi!" I shrieked "What can I help you with today?"

She glanced at my nametag and brushed past me. I was an annoyance, like melonomas or Mormons. "I'm just browsing", she replied, making her way toward the running shoes, even though the last time she ran for anything it was president of the Junior League.

She was not athletic. Her legs were unnaturally tan but spindly, her skin bunching around her kneecaps like an ill-fitting pair of pants. No, this woman's hobbies include things like raising succulents, Cosmopolitans, and describing her house as having 'good bones'. She'll spend the summer trying to find the right photographer for the elaborately staged Christmas card she'll send to people she no longer speaks to, something involving a garland-ensnared bannister, garish holiday sweaters, and a faux-sepia tone. She has a dog named for a luxury brand and knows exactly how many black people have been in her home.

I followed her around the store, making another awktastic attempt at conversation, even though I probably had more in common with Digger the dermatophyte, a plastic model of foot fungus that stood on the shelf behind her.

"So, um, do you, like, live around here?" I asked.

She was carefully examining the most expensive shoe on the wall, the only one that seemed to catch her attention. "Yes. But I'm not originally from this area".

Of course not. Someone shook a Neiman Marcus catalog and you tumbled out, a tangled mess of St. John and second marriages.

She handed me the sneaker to put back on the peg. "But"--and here's where she sighed deeply, like she was being crushed between the last two numbers of this unfortunate zip code--"We'll just be here until our daughter graduates from Wake Forest."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "That's where I went to college".

She froze, halfway to a rack of capri pants that would've looked ridiculous on her, and spun around to look at my face for the first time. "Oh really? This is what a Wake Forest degree will get you?" She spat out a bitter laugh that sounded like a twig snapping.

I, for once, fumbled for a response like Helen Keller with a handful of well water. No, I wanted to say. This is what self-loathing and a general disregard for authority will get you.

Put the i in customer. Put the i in customer, even when you'd prefer to put the i's in "set this busted bitch on fire".

"Absolutely", I said through a mouthful of bile. "The Carolina grads took all the jobs at Starbucks."

She attempted to make a look of disgust, failing because her face had been Botoxed to the smoothness of a serving spoon. She yanked a pair of capris from the rack and let herself into the dressing room, probably to call her husband before she overdosed on anti-anxiety medications.

Sigh.

Yes, Rags to Bitches, I managed to parlay a high-dollar degree from your daughter's university into a retail job. I'm 28, wear an embroidered shirt, and work as an hourly employee just like baristas or hookers or members of The Babysitter's Club.

But bunions and I are not BFFs and it's not like this is what I planned for myself. I didn't spend fourth period Earth Science drawing pictures of plantar warts in the margins of my notebooks or wishing for a day when I could wring a stranger's socks out into a styrofoam cup to show him how much his feet sweat.

No--I wanted to bang on the door and tell her--if I hadn't been on the business end of cosmic sodomy, I would've awakened this morning and brushed one of Hugh Laurie's stray chest hairs off my 22,000 thread count sheets. I'd pad into my living room, sipping a cup of imported Kopi Luwak coffee and staring out my streak-free windows into the type of sunrise frequently screenprinted on Hollister t-shirts.

I'd spend my days writing a wildly successful sitcom that I also star in and at night Hugh and I would drop three digits on dinners made of rare Jenga-stacked vegetables that we don't recognize, flip it onto the plate with our forks**, then leave and go to Wendy's.

I would check into Shutters on the Beach*** when my laundry was being done, when the dishwasher was full, or if I'd had a particularly potent bowel movement.

I would have surgically enhanced breasts the size of sea turtles and a staff of two whose sole purpose was to walk in front of me, keeping them lifted and separated.

Next spring, the Academy would give me a special award for Lifetime Achievement in Awesomeness and Also Smelling Delightful. I'd absentmindedly leave it in the restroom. I wouldn't miss it.

I would send George Clooney's calls directly to voicemail, because he's been so needy since our breakup. I would answer Simon Cowell's but never on the first ring.

I would adopt the babies that Angelina wanted and just put them in storage.

I would make David Archuleta promise never to record an album.

I would be the first person other than Oprah to be on the cover of Oprah magazine. In the photo, I would be painting a picture of myself.

I would wear diamond-encrusted pants and throw them away if I farted in them.

But instead, I'm leaning against the wooden door of the dressing room, asking this woman if she has any problems with her feet. Other than the fact that they're attached to her.

* I think they were sunglasses. They could've also been a welding mask.
** We wouldn't walk out until I picked up two snow pea pods and slipped them under my top lip to make walrus tusks with them. Everyone in the restaurant would laugh. Some would hold up cell phones to take pictures. Others would wish they had thought of it.
*** I've been a guest there before--courtesy of a spendy advertising client--a two-week stay that culminated with me hitting James Cameron in the face with a door and showering Anne Heche with a glass of single malt. I didn't recognize her at first, since she wasn't muttering in a made-up language, but think it was a fitting payback for making me sit through Six Days Seven Nights.

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