by Shana McLean Moore

Repelled

I never felt much compassion for bugs until the first time I stepped through the doors of the trendy Hollister or Abercrombie & Fitch. Now I can say for sure that I know how a mosquito feels at the first whiff of Deet; how a fly longs to escape when trapped on sticky flypaper; how an ant colony reacts when a whoosh of wind with a pseudo spring-fresh scent blows down their backs before sucking the life right out of their wee ant lungs.  

Repelled, my friends. Repelled.  

Do I realize that this discovery instantly qualifies me as the Grand Poobah of the Geezer of the Month Club? Uh, yeah, my daughters pointed that out.  

Truly, I’m not trying to sound melodramatic. It’s just that I don’t find it inviting to walk into a store so dimly lit that I can’t help but wonder why their price tags aren’t written in Braille. At $40 a tee-shirt, you’d think they could afford to keep the lights on. And then there’s the “music.” Again, I know my use of quotation marks here makes the bison fur on my poohbah hat show signs of wear. But listen, the 80’s was my prime, and I know bad music when I hear it. And besides, even if the sounds of surf punk make you want to do something other than pound your head against your surfboard, the decibels these stores play it at are not even allowed for the purposes of torture as per the Geneva Conventions.  

I almost want to see myself on videotape when I’ve spent more than five minutes in there. I’m sure my body twitches or contorts involuntarily as I try to keep it together for the sake of my daughters.  

Last weekend, the girls weren’t so lucky.  

My husband, the girls, and I took a rare whole-family trip to the mall. After we filled our bellies with our own respective food court favorites, we hit a few shops. Latte in hand, I generously left my husband on an outdoor bench as I braved the kind of store that makes a mom question her usual love of shopping. It started easily enough as we made our way to the sale rack where my eldest discovered a bargain-priced sweatshirt in her usual size. She wanted to follow my normal advice and try it on, but the clock was closing in on my five-minute limit for that place, and I rushed her to the long line at the register before I might suffer an aneurysm or shout out a string of obscenities and embarrass her. Not that anyone would be able to see her flushed cheeks inside the hollowed caves of Hollister.  

With only one pouty poster boy behind the register, I had plenty of time to re-enact the Lamaze breathing that, twelve years after my daughter’s birth, was finally useful for something. For the record, I’d have opted for an epidural here, as well, but didn’t see that or anything else that fit my demographic for sale. My daughter paid for her sweatshirt and I burst out the doors like a coal miner desperate for fresh air.  

Just ten steps outside the store, my daughter, like the true retail enthusiast she is, decided to put on her new purchase; only to discover that we accidentally bought a men’s size small that hit her just above the knee. The spin doctor in me panicked and started sputtering out reassurances, “That looks comfy!” “You’ll grow into it.” “I’ll return it for you next week.” Lord, don’t make me go back in there.  

There was no dissuading her. Much to my surprise, my retail-averse husband stepped up and volunteered to go in with her for the return. My younger daughter and I sat just outside the store on the same bench warmed by at least 27 other dads before us that day. I giggled a bit to myself, as only a long married, score-keeping wife would, knowing the level of my husband’s misery might even exceed my own in that store.  

Ten minutes passed and I started feeling guilty. Then concerned. I looked at my youngest daughter and declared “We can’t leave him in there!” Like the Marines, when it boils down to the really tough stuff, no one gets left behind. I charged the dressing room area and found my husband in a chair, staring straight ahead. The look on his face was pure prostate check. When I broke through his pained trance, I asked him what was taking so long. His response will forever make me cackle. With arms extended and ten minutes of pent up exasperation enunciating outward, he mouthed “I CAN”T HEAR YOU!”  

It’s enough to make you re-think the morality of roach motels and bug zappers.