Three Dimps, Two Pairs of Capris, and a WordNerd Who’s Been Ticked Off

IP and I will be heading to Florida this weekend to visit with his family. As I am currently not happy with how I look in shorts—okay, let’s face it, I could be a college size eight (as opposed to a late 20s size eight) and still not feel good in shorts—I went to Macy’s to buy some capris in which to not die in the Florida heat (I tend to exaggerate—have you noticed?). Macy’s, particularly the one near my office, is not my favorite store. The selection is dull, it smells kind of funny, and I’ve been followed in there by some crazy old dude who apparently thought I was the bee’s knees. I managed to elude him at one point, but then he found me. I probably could’ve taken him given how short and weak-looking he was, but I’m not one to engage in physical violence in a department store—yet. Guess who raced back to sanctuary that day?

I also don’t like department stores (save for Target) for one big reason—I always get asked if I work there. I should clarify, though: it’s either a department store or a women’s clothing store that gets me into trouble. Be it Macy’s, New York & Company, Sears, Express, anything—I tend to get asked that question. I never have the problem in a store like Meijer, let’s say, but anything with women’s clothing in it as a primary focus always gets me. I feel more comfortable in stores where a uniform of sorts is required (red shirt for Target, all black for Victoria’s Secret, headgear for Old Navy) because I never get asked that question in those stores. The only two types of stores in which I wouldn’t be perturbed at being asked the question would probably be bookstores and running specialty stores. The former would just get a polite “No” while the latter would get a fervent “No, but I wish!” (not really, but you get my drift).

But department stores—those nettle me. When I went to Macy’s today, I was asked three, count them, three times if I worked there. Because I have visited that store more than once, it’s of course happened on more than one occasion. It’s to the point where I’m sick of going to that store for anything, but have to face reality in that it’s most convenient to get to if I desperately need something (capris qualify). I have ceased to be polite about the answer—as soon as I see anyone approaching, I let my natural bitchface come into play and answer a crisp negative. No, I do not work here.

I get it that I might look young; I get it that my Hispanic/Latina/whatever the hell appearance makes people pigeonhole me into a specific skill set and a limited range of job options (wrong as that is, people, don’t assume). However—do you have to be colossally stupid and ask someone on the floor? Can you please go to the nearest customer service desk and ask for help that way? You’re bound to make an ass of yourself. I once had someone in Michigan come up to me with a rant about the store, thinking I worked there. The offended tone of voice in my answer of “I do not work here!” prompted the lady to flush red and scurry away without apologizing, but I imagine you cringe for a while after that happens.

And seriously, shoppers—take a good look before you ask if you’re too lazy to talk to the actual employees sitting behind the desks. If I do not have a company nametag and a freaking security badge is swinging from my hip, rest assured that I do not work at Macy’s. Do you realize there’s a term for people like you? The Unword Dictionary says that you’re a dimp. Before today, I had never heard of the Unword Dictionary, but I can now envision myself saying, to you dear dummy, that no, I do not work here, you dimp. And that will force you to search what the hell a dimp is on Google, and maybe after you read the definition you’ll stop asking idiot questions of random people.