Swimming With The Tide

Posted on November 8, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

The task was simple enough.  Buy a new bathing suit at one of the 100,000 or more clothing stores in Florida.  The last one I owned was reduced to the garbage heap a year ago while on vacation.  It had lost all of its color and for some reason didn’t fit the way it did ten years ago when I bought it. Even after the elastic disintegrated.   No bathing suit looks particularly good on an aging, bald man.  Merchandisers are not miracle workers.

I have learned the art of stealth when it comes to buying clothing.  I rarely, if ever, mention the need to buy an article of clothing.  I quietly go to my favorite men’s clothing store and buy a few new shirts for work and a t-shirt or two.  And rather than have you second guessing, I routinely buy new underwear.

I dropped my wife and two of her friends at a mall.  I had some chores to do.  I wasn’t really thinking about buying a bathing suit but I thought; what the hell, I’m already in the bowels of one of the shopping districts.  Let’s get ‘er done.  Surely it couldn’t take all that long to purchase a single article of clothing.  I entered the maw of an enormous clothing outlet.  It swallowed me whole.

The good news is that the signage in the store was excellent.  Even a non-shopper like me can find the men’s wear section of the store.  That was the only good news.  I cautiously approached a rack of clothing that appeared to be bathing suits, but was flummoxed as it appeared that the rack included both swim trunks and shorts.  Why would a store purposely choose to try and trick men?

I flailed away for a few minutes and was about to lose all hope (and patience) when I heard a voice; “Is there something I can help you with?”  I turned around and there in front of me was a young woman.  No, a girl perhaps, or a child.  She looked like she had been let out at recess from school.  But, hey, I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I explained my confusion and it quickly became apparent that I knew more than she did.  She flailed away for a few minutes at which point I relieved her of her duties.  “Please let me know if there is anything else I can do for you,” she declared.  I stifled a laugh.

When in doubt, go with the heavy hitters.  I sent a text to my wife, who was in the vicinity.  While I parked the car, she went into a clothing store and was standing at the store entrance with a bathing suit when I arrived.   “Do you like it?”  She knows me well.  She knew that I would like it because I didn’t have to go through a rack and manhandle dozens more.  “I love it,” was my terse reply as I seized the garment and walked to the dressing rooms without breaking stride.

She left me in a lineup to pay for it.  This took five times as long as it took to select and try on the swim trunks.

Upon returning to our vacation property, I donned my new apparel and headed to the beach for a swim.  I walked on the sandbar, my imaginary runway.  But alas, there were no cheers, no whistles, no catcalls.  The seagulls squawked momentarily, but they were more interested in food than fashion.

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