Dangers of Shopping Solo

       Since March I’ve been working at my seasonal job scoring standardized tests. I put in a lot of overtime—one week I worked 73 hours. While I was working fast and furiously, I didn’t make it to the gym a single time. Things have eased up now. I’m only working a 40 hour week from home, no weekends.

On Friday after I logged off, the house was extremely quiet. John was out of town. Sarah was also out of town. Johnny and his girlfriend Sarah were out with their friends, about 30 minutes away.  So I did what any bored American woman would do. I went shopping.

This was a targeted shopping expedition. There were two reasons for my shopping goal: new active wear. One, I needed to get myself back on the workout track and new workout clothes would give me a boost. Two, my black workout bras had mysteriously disappeared in the whirlwind rearranging of our house when we got a new roof, and I was tired of looking for them.

I don’t mind shopping by myself. In some ways I prefer it. I can concentrate fully on finding exactly what I want. I don’t have to keep track of where someone else is, or whether they’re getting tired or hungry. I’ve never needed someone else’s opinion of what looks good, or horrible on me. I pretty much know. The mirror doesn’t lie. And I'm a decisive shopper. I don't need someone to urge me to get something or convince me not to.

On mother’s day, Sarah told me that she’d almost gotten me a shirt a Old Navy because it looked like Blue Willow and she knows how much I love Blue Willow dishes. She didn’t get it because she said she wasn’t sure I’d like it. If I went to Old Navy, I’d be able to look for that shirt and get some workout clothes. That’s where I’d gotten my favorite workout pants. Maybe I’d pick up another pair of those too.

As soon as I walked through the doors, I spotted the Blue Willow shirts. There was a tank and one with short sleeves. Neither of them was on sale, so I kept walking to the active wear section.

The sports bras were on sale if you bought two. I selected two of them. A newer version of my yoga pants were hanging nearby. They only had gray ones in my size, none in black. I added a pair to my try-on hand. Then I saw the clearance rack. There were some possibilities there—sports bras, and a beautiful yoga top at half price. The top was a medium! Just my size!

On the way to the dressing room, I had to pass through the clearance area. Someone in Old Navy’s marketing department planned that well. I rifled through those racks and found both Blue Willow shirts at half price and in my size.

A friendly young black girl let me and my 10 items into a dressing room, “Just let me know if you need any help with different sizes or anything.” She looked like she was in high school. I thought she was pretty smart for getting her “summer job” lined up before the other teenagers even started applying.

I hung the clothes with hangers up on a hook, and laid the folded t-shirts on the bench. Let the trying on begin! The yoga pants were great. The fabric on one of the t-shirts was off grain so that went in the “no” pile. The Blue Willow shirt with the sleeves was flattering. I could wear it with my white jeans or blue jeans, or shorts. I hung it on the “yes” hook. The tank version was also cute, but my arms aren’t toned enough to wear a tank other than to work out in. I wavered. Well . . . I could wear it with a cardigan, or just wear it at home. It went on the “yes” hook.

Next on the try-on hook was the yoga top. I loved the cool blue and green swirls of colors. It had a key-hole back, something different from my usual racer back tops. It would be perfect for Zumba or yoga.  I carefully threaded my arms through the body of it and made sure my head was going through the neck hole.

Here's what the key-hole back looks like.

Wow, it was a little tight, but I snaked my way in. Yoga tops are supposed to be tight so that you’re not falling out when you’re twisting around and upside down.

On the hanger this top looked great! I really wanted it to look great on me, but I could see parts of me overflowing the edges. I knew I’d gained some weight from sitting at a computer all day, and not working out. I’d have to go back out and see if they had it in a large.

I grabbed the bottom hem and started trying to pull it back up over my head. As soon as it got to my rib cage, it stopped. I sucked in and pulled the shelf bra up over my fullest area and then tried pulling from the bottom up again. It wasn’t budging. My injured left rotator cuff protested loudly when I tried muscling just one side up.

I started to panic a little. Then I began to talk or argue myself down, “OK Laura, just take a deep breath. . .I can’t. It’s too tight!. . .  Just take a little breath then. Let it out, then give it a mighty heave ho!” I did. It was a no-go.

Grasping the bottom hem tightly, I started tugging and jumping up and down at the same time in the hopes that momentum and gravity would help. After a few minutes of futile pogo-ing, I sat down on the bench with that stupid yoga top bunched up under my arms, as tight as a boa constrictor wrapped around my body.  

I was starting to sweat. It was definitely hot in there. I leaned my head back in exasperation and looked up at the ceiling. Is that a security camera? Yep, I think it is. Well, they’ll be having a good laugh about this. Please God, please don’t let me end up on YouTube!

I stood up and jumped up and down a few more times. The yoga top refused to move. I bent at the waist and wrestled. This must be how Houdini felt trying to escape the strait jacket. But he had double jointed shoulders. I don’t.

I sat down again. I really didn’t want to have to call that nice dressing room girl for help. How embarrassing would that be? I don’t have a bra on. Getting half naked middle-aged women with injured rotator cuffs un-stuck from yoga tops probably wasn’t on her job description and I'm pretty sure it wasn’t what she was looking for in a career or even a summer job. Well, at least I’d kept the yoga pants on if I did have to get her.

I could reach my cell phone, but my entire family is out of range. Who else can I call? No one. It’s too embarrassing to call anyone else. Maybe I should just pull the top back down, buy it and wear it out of the store. Then when I get home I can cut it off.  OK, that’s what I’m doing.

The store closes in 15 minutes. How long have I been in here? 20 minutes? 30 minutes? What if nice dressing room girl comes busting in here to check on me? Uh-oh. I could hear her unlocking dressing room doors. That spurred me on.

One last try. If it doesn’t come off, I’ll go with the buy it now, cut it off later solution. Sitting down, I bent at the waist, rolled my left shoulder forward, reached over it with my right arm and pulled hard. Movement, at last! It creeped up a quarter of an inch, a half an inch, and then I popped out. Free!

I did a happy dance, and breathed deeply! I threw my clothes back on, gathered up the two piles of new clothes—guess which pile the yoga top was in, waved good-bye to the security camera, and bolted from the dressing room.

I have now instituted a new shopping policy. All yoga tops and sports bras will be purchased in multiple sizes, and tried on in the comfort of my home. Those items that do not fit will be returned to the store in a timely fashion. Who knew shopping alone could hold such dangerous embarrassment potential?

Laura Keolanui Stark is writing this in comfortable loose clothing. When she went to Old Navy’s website to get a picture of the strangling yoga top, she noticed that several reviews gave this item only 1 or 2 stars and said things like, “it’s a tourniquet. . . if you get it on, you may never get it off. . .needed help getting it off” so she doesn’t feel so bad now about her sticky situation. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Happy Mother's Day!

This was originally published in The News Tribune, April 1996. I think it still rings true.

         I never truly appreciated my mother until I became one. I loved her unconditionally and put her up on an unearthly pedestal as only a young child is capable of doing, but my perception of her was one-sided. Now that I’m a mom, I’m discovering another dimension of my mother and struggling with so many of the things she made look easy.

Mom and me (3 years old?) by a castle in Germany.

        Motherhood is unbelievably complex. You take care of your child physically, keeping them safe and clean, feeding them, nursing them through sicknesses, teaching them how to get dressed, climb stairs, ride bikes, and so much more. You stimulate them intellectually and worry about their reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic skills. You tune in to their emotions and try to help them learn to control, but not stifle their emotions. You teach them social skills, so they’ll get along in the world, be able to love and be loved. You do all this for the reason all mothers do it, so that your children can not only survive without you, but thrive without you, and be happy. The list of things you want for them has no end.

        Throughout all these preparations for life, there’s an incredible bond between mother and child. The bonding part was simple and natural for me, but letting go, gracefully, is a challenge. Part of the problem is that letting go and bonding happen simultaneously. While your love deepens, you’re supposed to be letting go, but not too much, and not too soon. It’s an ongoing process, two steps forward, two steps back. Children crawl, walk, and run, but still need you to set the limits. While they’re mastering all these milestones, it’s mom’s job to encourage and cheer them on, without showing that at the same time she has a twinge of longing for the days when they weren’t so independent.

         It’s a hard balance to strike, made even harder because the child is also wrestling with the holding on/letting go dilemma. For my son Johnny’s first month of kindergarten, putting him on the bus was heart-wrenching. He’d stand in line with his dinosaur backpack, eager to go to school. The huge, yellow bus would pull up and the line of kids would start across the street. Johnny would march along with them until he was halfway there. Then he’d turn around, run back to me crying, and hug me fiercely. I’d softly reassure him, “You’ll be just fine! Have fun at school!” and send him back when I didn’t want to. He looked so small sitting up in the bus window waving, and trying bravely to fight back tears. I’d paste on a cheerful face and wave until he was out of sight, then through blurry eyes take a deep breath before consoling Sarah and myself that her brother would be back for lunch. Letting go isn’t easy.

First day of school for Johnny (8) and Sarah (5).

      When I was a kid, I thought my parents had total control over us. Now that I’m a parent, I realize that most of their control (and now my control) amounted to creating the illusion that they had control. I learned quickly that it’s impossible to make a child eat, or sleep, or potty train unless they’re ready and want to.  Demanding doesn’t work nearly as well as coaxing. Being a good mom means knowing when to pull and when to push, when to hug and when to scold, when to listen instead of talk, when to ignore behavior that’s driving you crazy, when to lay it on the line, and when to bluff because you don’t have a clue. The punch line is that you will never know whether you did the right thing. There will always be a little doubt whispering in your ear.

        When I was sixteen, I fell in love and got my heart broken for the first time. Afterward, I moped around for weeks wallowing in the pain. My mother, undoubtedly tired of my self-pity, finally set me straight one night while I washed dishes. “You better pull yourself together. Get used to this, you’re going to have lots more boyfriends and I hate to tell you, but this is going to happen over and over. It’s not the end of the world.”

         In my infinite teenaged wisdom I snapped at her, “It’s NOT EVER going to happen again because I’m NEVER falling in love again!” and bolted from the kitchen leaving mom with a sink full of dirty dishes.

         Of course, she was right. By my mid-twenties my heart had been broken so many times I was sure that a “Kick Me” sign was pinned to it.  After each stormy break up, my mother’s observation about recurring heartbreaks echoed in my mind. How did she know? Even after I was happily married, I was still a little appalled that she’d been so uncharacteristically blunt and unsympathetic.

         Last month, my four-year-old daughter’s best friend moved. It wasn’t an abrupt surprise. Her family’s house had been for sale for nine months. Sarah saw them packing up boxes and moving furniture. But the meaning didn’t really hit her until we were at the playground one day and she asked if we could walk over and pick up Jennifer to play like we always had. I reminded her that Jennifer didn’t live in our neighborhood anymore. Her face crumbled as she broke down into hard, deep sobs. My heart ached along with hers as I held her close and tried to rock her sorrow away as if she were a baby again. After forty-five minutes, she calmed down a little. I wiped her tears away and told her, “You know what? Jennifer taught you how to be a good friend. You’ll make new friends, and love them too.”

         She pushed me away, and shot back, “I will NOT! Jennifer’s my ONLY friend, forever!” The floodgates re-opened and as hard as she had just pushed me away, she burrowed back into my chest. I thought of my mother, and smiled, and silently acknowledged how resilient our hearts really are. Thanks Mom, Happy Mother’s Day!

                

Mother's Day 2012, Bellevue, WA.

Sarah is 20 years old now and has made many new friends since her first friend, Jennifer. Johnny is 23 and has no problem getting in his car and going to work in the morning other than wanting to sleep in. My mother celebrated Mother’s Day surrounded by family and phone calls from two of her kids. I had a great Mother’s Day with John, my grownup kids and their friends. I can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.