I do sales. I like feeling like I've saved money. The notion of saving, actually, is untrue. They should rather have big bright red signs everywhere that say "Spend Less Than You Would Have To When We Charge You Exorbitant Prices For Items That Are Not Really That Valuable." But I'm an advertiser's wet dream. I fall for those big red signs with (untrue) slogans that read : 50% off.
And so, I went to The Woolies Sale yesterday. I feel battered. Only worse.
Sure, I need to take responsibility for the fact that I only arrived at the sale after 5, with The Daughter in tow. But, I'm going to rant anyway because that will make me feel better about myself.
So, the first counter I went to was Benefit. Nothing on sale. But I did try a fragrance called G-Spot. And fell in love (you've got approximately 47 shopping days until my birthday, in case you're stuck for a gift). Then I approached the clothing section.
It was in such a state of mayhem that I found two scarves on the floor (which were not, by the way, on sale) and I drew upon my Girl Guides' skills and knotted them into a fashionable harness for The Daughter. And then I began my shopping. One woman punched me in the eye for a cream size 8 cammi (she won). Another rugby tackled me for a grey skirt from Twist (I won - wearing it today). It was when I tried to find a bra in my size - there was only one without Hannah Montanna branding -and couldn't bloody extracate it from the plethora of half broken hangers in which it was tangled, I began to throw a monumental tantrum.
The Daughter: Mom. What's wrong? That isn't even a nice bra. You don't even wear bras. Why do you want it so badly? Let's rather go to the kiddies section.
Not much better. But The Daughter was adamant that she was going to buy something. And every last item with a chiffon overlay, or sequince, or a vile taffeta rose attached had her eyes glinting. Thankfully her deciphering of numbers is not so hot so I was able to tell her that, unfortunately, all those items were not in her size. She settled on a nightie with pictures of cupcakes all over it. Bought in the spirit of The BF's birthday.
I tried to be sneaky and take sale items into food section, pick up a few items for dinner and go through the obviously much quieter tills. When it's passed dinner time and you're so hungry you could quite easily gnaw at the limbs of your own offspring, it is not a wise idea to do grocery shopping.
So, after 45 minutes of physical torture, The Daughter and I joined the check-out queue. There were more people in this queue than were at the U2 concert. We had to eat the food in our trolley to prevent passing out. We were there for such a long time, in fact, that I have now made a new best friend. Her name is Shirley. She was standing in front of us in the queue. We're so close, that I'm thinking of having The Daughter re-baptised so I can make her godmother - or godfather. She's a bit mannish.
When, after sharing childhood secrets, recipes, medical histories, relatioship woes, after swapping cell-phone numbers, that monotone whore woman on the intercom thingy said "Next customer please", and Shirley disappeared, I felt positively broken-hearted. We'd spent so much time together I felt like I'd lost a part of me, and couldn't help but dissolve into a puddle of tears. Tears, that were not made any sweeter by the extra 10% I got off my purchases for being a cardholder.
When we exited the shop, I realised that it was well passed The Daughter's bed-time. Passed my own bed-time, in fact, as the sun was beginning to illuminate the city. And since every effing lift was occupied by very rude and not even good-looking construction worker men, it took us a further decade to reach the car.
Instead of going home, I simply wiped The Daughter down with wet-wipes and dropped her back at school. And I was late for work.
I might possibly be cured of my obsession to "save".