Last weekend the beau and I went out looking for new bed sheets. Our old sheets were ripped, you see, and we only had one set. So every week we’d wash them and put them back on the bed, and every week our feet would get stuck in the holes, and every week the holes grew bigger. I fully expected that one day I’d pull them out of the washing machine to find they’d completely disintegrated into tatters, and then we could drape them over our heads and run down the street yelping, “Spare a shilling, sir?” like a couple of demented characters from a Dickens novel.
Bonus: instant Halloween costume.
But that didn’t happen. Sadly. This would be a much better blog post if it had. What instead happened is that we downed a couple of margaritas for liquid shopping encouragement and and walked to Macy’s. With fire in our bellies and determination in our hearts, we marched right into that store, rode up three escalators, and proceeded to become increasingly distraught about the sheer quantity of bedding options presented to us. What color did we want? This one is damask and that one is striped. Did we need a bedskirt? Is that what adults do, put bedskirts on their beds? Are our more mature friends coming over and judging us for our visible boxspring? We should break up with them. All of them. You are fired, friends.
A clerk with hard eyes and a chronic throat-clearing problem watched us the entire time. Every ten minutes or so, she’d suddenly materialize from around a row of shelves and demand to know if we could be helped. Sorry, lady. Nothing in the world could ever help us now. You had better stand back and just let nature take its course.
After the fourteenth time I’d collapsed in a ball on the floor and sobbed hysterically over the horror of it all, we finally had it settled. We were getting light grey sheets and a dark grey duvet cover, because it turns out our duvet cover was ripped, too. At this point you might expect me to make a joke about our particularly lively and vigorous amorous life, but let me assure you that’s not the case. No, no. Missionary only, once every third Saturday, after which we primly bid each other good night and retire to our respective twin-sized beds. As the Lord intended.
But just when I’ve got you wondering why I’m writing a post about bed sheets and puritanical sex, BAM. This happens:
We were walking out of the store with our purchases in hand, exhausted from our ordeal, when we passed a rack strewn with Christmas ornaments. Yes, yes, insert the oh-my-god-they-have-CHRISTMAS-stuff-out-already-and-it’s-not-even-HALLOWEEN rant of your choice here, and I will nod my head feverishly in agreement. But in this moment I actually didn’t care that I was seeing Christmas ornaments. For I was too busy boggling at what was written on them:
Collect all three! For the special diva-princess-shopaholic in your life!
Really? Seriously? REALLY? SERIOUSLY? Who buys this shit? No, really, I need to know. Are they all 13-year-olds in UGG boots who sincerely believe that one day they’ll grow up and their lives will be just like Sex and the City? How did we get to a point in our society where these are such desirable labels of personality identity that they were turned into ornaments to be hung from a tree? Who would want to even broadcast these things about themselves? I don’t know about you, but when I see someone wearing a t-shirt scrawled with the word “PRINCESS,” it’s like a thousand little fire alarms warning me to run, run away from the frightening person! Back away! Stand clear! Do not engage!
I’d much rather talk to the person running down the street wearing a tattered sheet than someone sporting yoga pants with the letters D-I-V-A spelled out in glitter across the butt. Why is this not the default reaction for the rest of society? Why don’t we all just agree to avoid interaction with these kinds of people, so that they slowly die out? I would be way more comfortable bringing new life into this world if I could be assured that my grandchildren would never know the horror of seeing what I saw in Macy’s last weekend.
That’s right, bitches.