Six
Every few months, Kathy came to visit Sarah in Washington. As was the custom on these visits, they would go shopping, just like they had at home. Kathy would wander the racks, picking out clothes that she thought would be just perfect for Sarah. Sarah was largely convinced that her mother lived in a parallel universe, complete with a daughter who wore the kind of clothes that Kathy would pick out. The real Sarah, however, would not be caught dead in a tweed blazer with elbow patches (“But it’s Ralph Lauren, and it’s marked down 40% with an additional 30% off at the register!”) or a long, flowing skirt that reminded Sarah of the schoolteacher on Little House on the Prairie.
Sarah carried around an armload of clothes to try on: fitted blazers, crisp white blouses and delicate cashmere cable sweaters that always looked put-together without looking like she was trying too hard. She caught up with her mother, deep within the sale racks, carrying an eclectic assortment of clothing in the weird colors and patterns that tend to remain at the end of a season. “I’m heading into the fitting room. Do you want me to take any of that in with me?”
Kathy sighed. “I don’t understand why you try clothes on here. The lighting is unflattering. The rooms are small. And god only knows what you might step on in there. Keep your shoes on.”
“Mom, I refuse to be like you and Grandma. I’m not going to buy a dozen random items, take them home to try on, and then return 11 of them. That’s how Grandma got banned from Winslow’s.” The previous year, Winslow’s had sent her grandmother a letter, calling her on her buy-and-return habits and suggesting that if she found the merchandise to be so unacceptable as to warrant a 95% return rate, then perhaps she would be better served shopping elsewhere. Dottie was indignant, but that didn’t stop her from shopping at Winslow’s. She simply stopped using her Winslow’s card to make her purchases.
“She wasn’t banned, Sarah.” Kathy shook her head. “I can’t believe the nerve of those people. Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right?’”
“I think that motto went out of style at about the same time as customer service itself,” Sarah observed. “Either that or they just offshored the sentiment to a call center in Bangalore.”
“Where is Bangalore, anyway?” asked Kathy.
“India.”
“Isn’t it the middle of the night there when it’s daytime here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.” Kathy thought for a moment. “Imagine dealing with angry American customers all night long. Oh, that’s just a nightmare!”
Sarah plucked the clothes from her mother’s arms, selecting some that might have potential and putting others right back on the rack.
“Oh, Sarah, you have to try this one on!” her mother protested, holding up a ruffled shirt with a paisley pattern.
“Mom. No. Just put it down.”
“Oh, come on,” Kathy urged. “I just want to see what it looks like on you.”
“I think it looks like paisley ruffles.”
“Come on.”
“Fine.” Sarah added it to the pile. “Let me go try these on before my arm breaks.” She headed for the doorway to the fitting rooms.
“Sarah!” her mother called from several feet away, and Sarah turned to look. “Keep your shoes on!” she said in an exaggerated stage whisper. The saleswoman giggled.
She went into the fitting room, locked the door and slumped against the wall. Shopping with her mother was grueling. Everything with her mother was grueling. She stripped down to her underwear—a gorgeous lace set that she had purchased in Thailand, along with several gorgeous custom-made business suits that cost next to nothing—and began to survey the pile that lay before her.
As she tried on each item, she noticed that her body responded to each piece differently. When she was wearing something that was comfortable and familiar, her body relaxed and her features softened. When she tried on something that her mother selected—the paisley ruffles, for example—her body tightened and her shoulders showed enough tension to make a yoga teacher apoplectic. She stepped out of the fitting room wearing a plaid skirt and the paisley shirt and flagged her mother down for approval.
“What do you think,” she asked. “The colors are all wrong, but the patterns have a very circa 1975 J.C. Penney-catalog feel about them.”
Kathy laughed. “Oh, you’re right. The paisley is very… what’s the word I’m looking for?” she asked.
“Hideous?” offered Sarah.
“No, that’s not it, exactly. Ummm… dated. Maybe it looks dated.” Kathy was seriously contemplating the blouse as if to try to find some element worthy of special merit.
“Yeah, that’s one way to look at it.” Two teenaged girls walked by, giggling. “Don’t laugh. One day this could happen to you. Sure, you think you’re cool now, but suddenly you’re standing outside a fitting room wearing mismatched patterns while your mother tries to justify why she picked these items out in the first place.”
“Oh Sarah, stop that,” her mother chided. “Step back inside where no one can see you.”
“I know, I know. ‘What would people think?’”
“I didn’t say that, Sarah.”
“No, but you were thinking it.”
“I don’t know why you think I’m obsessed with other people’s opinions.”
“Because you are. It makes the assessment perfectly simple and logical. All you need to do is watch you for an hour at most, and you can see that you’re looking around, wondering what others think of you.”
“Well maybe more people should worry about appearances. The world might be a better place.”
“No,” Sarah said. “Just more paranoid.” She went back into the fitting room, tried on the rest of the clothes, and came back with a beautiful red blazer, a pair of overpriced jeans that fit beautifully, a black cashmere cable sweater and a shimmery silver top, just in case she ever had someplace to go.
“You look better in gold than silver,” her mother noted as she stood at the register. “Silver makes you look cold.”
“Point taken, but I like the top and I can correct the coldness with makeup.”
“Speaking of your makeup,” her mother began.
“No. No, no, no. Not today. I am not going to sit through some Elizabeth Arden session on how to look like a middle-aged woman. If anybody is going to do my makeover, I’m going to have it done at MAC and look like I’m in my 20s and have someplace exciting to go.”
“Elizabeth Arden does wonderful work.”
“No they don’t, Mom. Every time they do your makeup, you look like you’ve been embalmed.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” her mother exclaimed.
“It’s true. You look so much younger and more natural when you do your own makeup. But they way they want you to do it—the way they sell it—I remain convinced that you need to apply it with a spatula. Do they have a co-marketing deal with Williams Sonoma?”
“Be nice,” her mother warned, watching over her shoulder. “Don’t even tell me that you’re paying that much for a cashmere sweater! Wait a few more months and it will be on sale for a great price.”
“Not everything can be bought on sale with an extra bonus coupon,” Sarah pointed out, uselessly. “If I wait a few months, I won’t need a sweater, will I?”
“Of course you’ll need a sweater. You’ll just save it for next year.”
Sarah sighed. “Why not just buy things when you need them and want them? Why wait?”
“Because there’s no reason to pay full price,” her mother scolded.
“It’s not full price. It’s 25% off.”
“And soon it will be 50% off, maybe even with an additional 15%.”
The salesperson held the sweater in her hands, unsure if she should remove the sensor tag. “Are you going to buy this?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” said Sarah, handing over her credit card.
“I thought I taught you better than that, Sarah,” her mother said. “I taught you to be a sale shopper.”
“I know, I know. It was all my shopping experience that taught me how to do fractions and percentages in second grade. But life has taught me that it’s better to buy sweaters in cold weather and tank tops in warm weather, and not the other way around just because of a sale. The thrill of the hunt only goes so far.”
Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. Waste your money however you’d like. I’m going to look for new shoes.”
“I’ll meet you there,” said Sarah. “And Mom, be careful not to take your shoes off. You never know what you might step on in the shoe department. I hear it’s worse than the fitting rooms.”
“Very funny. Can you see me laughing?” Kathy walked away.
After she was out of earshot, the saleslady quietly said, “I think this is a really good price for cashmere.”
“Me too,” said Sarah. “Over the years I’ve learned to ignore the ‘gentle feedback’ that my mother likes to give. It’s kind of like a dog with an electric fence. What’s the marketing phrase they use? ‘A mild correction?’ She expects me to feel the zap, but I largely ignore it anymore.”
“Wow, that must be hard to do,” the saleslady said while folding Sarah’s new clothes. “She’s pretty forceful.”
“It used to be. And then I moved away.” Sarah smiled. “Sometimes you just have to go out on your own and force everyone, including yourself and your mother, to grow up.”
Sarah carried around an armload of clothes to try on: fitted blazers, crisp white blouses and delicate cashmere cable sweaters that always looked put-together without looking like she was trying too hard. She caught up with her mother, deep within the sale racks, carrying an eclectic assortment of clothing in the weird colors and patterns that tend to remain at the end of a season. “I’m heading into the fitting room. Do you want me to take any of that in with me?”
Kathy sighed. “I don’t understand why you try clothes on here. The lighting is unflattering. The rooms are small. And god only knows what you might step on in there. Keep your shoes on.”
“Mom, I refuse to be like you and Grandma. I’m not going to buy a dozen random items, take them home to try on, and then return 11 of them. That’s how Grandma got banned from Winslow’s.” The previous year, Winslow’s had sent her grandmother a letter, calling her on her buy-and-return habits and suggesting that if she found the merchandise to be so unacceptable as to warrant a 95% return rate, then perhaps she would be better served shopping elsewhere. Dottie was indignant, but that didn’t stop her from shopping at Winslow’s. She simply stopped using her Winslow’s card to make her purchases.
“She wasn’t banned, Sarah.” Kathy shook her head. “I can’t believe the nerve of those people. Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right?’”
“I think that motto went out of style at about the same time as customer service itself,” Sarah observed. “Either that or they just offshored the sentiment to a call center in Bangalore.”
“Where is Bangalore, anyway?” asked Kathy.
“India.”
“Isn’t it the middle of the night there when it’s daytime here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.” Kathy thought for a moment. “Imagine dealing with angry American customers all night long. Oh, that’s just a nightmare!”
Sarah plucked the clothes from her mother’s arms, selecting some that might have potential and putting others right back on the rack.
“Oh, Sarah, you have to try this one on!” her mother protested, holding up a ruffled shirt with a paisley pattern.
“Mom. No. Just put it down.”
“Oh, come on,” Kathy urged. “I just want to see what it looks like on you.”
“I think it looks like paisley ruffles.”
“Come on.”
“Fine.” Sarah added it to the pile. “Let me go try these on before my arm breaks.” She headed for the doorway to the fitting rooms.
“Sarah!” her mother called from several feet away, and Sarah turned to look. “Keep your shoes on!” she said in an exaggerated stage whisper. The saleswoman giggled.
She went into the fitting room, locked the door and slumped against the wall. Shopping with her mother was grueling. Everything with her mother was grueling. She stripped down to her underwear—a gorgeous lace set that she had purchased in Thailand, along with several gorgeous custom-made business suits that cost next to nothing—and began to survey the pile that lay before her.
As she tried on each item, she noticed that her body responded to each piece differently. When she was wearing something that was comfortable and familiar, her body relaxed and her features softened. When she tried on something that her mother selected—the paisley ruffles, for example—her body tightened and her shoulders showed enough tension to make a yoga teacher apoplectic. She stepped out of the fitting room wearing a plaid skirt and the paisley shirt and flagged her mother down for approval.
“What do you think,” she asked. “The colors are all wrong, but the patterns have a very circa 1975 J.C. Penney-catalog feel about them.”
Kathy laughed. “Oh, you’re right. The paisley is very… what’s the word I’m looking for?” she asked.
“Hideous?” offered Sarah.
“No, that’s not it, exactly. Ummm… dated. Maybe it looks dated.” Kathy was seriously contemplating the blouse as if to try to find some element worthy of special merit.
“Yeah, that’s one way to look at it.” Two teenaged girls walked by, giggling. “Don’t laugh. One day this could happen to you. Sure, you think you’re cool now, but suddenly you’re standing outside a fitting room wearing mismatched patterns while your mother tries to justify why she picked these items out in the first place.”
“Oh Sarah, stop that,” her mother chided. “Step back inside where no one can see you.”
“I know, I know. ‘What would people think?’”
“I didn’t say that, Sarah.”
“No, but you were thinking it.”
“I don’t know why you think I’m obsessed with other people’s opinions.”
“Because you are. It makes the assessment perfectly simple and logical. All you need to do is watch you for an hour at most, and you can see that you’re looking around, wondering what others think of you.”
“Well maybe more people should worry about appearances. The world might be a better place.”
“No,” Sarah said. “Just more paranoid.” She went back into the fitting room, tried on the rest of the clothes, and came back with a beautiful red blazer, a pair of overpriced jeans that fit beautifully, a black cashmere cable sweater and a shimmery silver top, just in case she ever had someplace to go.
“You look better in gold than silver,” her mother noted as she stood at the register. “Silver makes you look cold.”
“Point taken, but I like the top and I can correct the coldness with makeup.”
“Speaking of your makeup,” her mother began.
“No. No, no, no. Not today. I am not going to sit through some Elizabeth Arden session on how to look like a middle-aged woman. If anybody is going to do my makeover, I’m going to have it done at MAC and look like I’m in my 20s and have someplace exciting to go.”
“Elizabeth Arden does wonderful work.”
“No they don’t, Mom. Every time they do your makeup, you look like you’ve been embalmed.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” her mother exclaimed.
“It’s true. You look so much younger and more natural when you do your own makeup. But they way they want you to do it—the way they sell it—I remain convinced that you need to apply it with a spatula. Do they have a co-marketing deal with Williams Sonoma?”
“Be nice,” her mother warned, watching over her shoulder. “Don’t even tell me that you’re paying that much for a cashmere sweater! Wait a few more months and it will be on sale for a great price.”
“Not everything can be bought on sale with an extra bonus coupon,” Sarah pointed out, uselessly. “If I wait a few months, I won’t need a sweater, will I?”
“Of course you’ll need a sweater. You’ll just save it for next year.”
Sarah sighed. “Why not just buy things when you need them and want them? Why wait?”
“Because there’s no reason to pay full price,” her mother scolded.
“It’s not full price. It’s 25% off.”
“And soon it will be 50% off, maybe even with an additional 15%.”
The salesperson held the sweater in her hands, unsure if she should remove the sensor tag. “Are you going to buy this?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” said Sarah, handing over her credit card.
“I thought I taught you better than that, Sarah,” her mother said. “I taught you to be a sale shopper.”
“I know, I know. It was all my shopping experience that taught me how to do fractions and percentages in second grade. But life has taught me that it’s better to buy sweaters in cold weather and tank tops in warm weather, and not the other way around just because of a sale. The thrill of the hunt only goes so far.”
Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. Waste your money however you’d like. I’m going to look for new shoes.”
“I’ll meet you there,” said Sarah. “And Mom, be careful not to take your shoes off. You never know what you might step on in the shoe department. I hear it’s worse than the fitting rooms.”
“Very funny. Can you see me laughing?” Kathy walked away.
After she was out of earshot, the saleslady quietly said, “I think this is a really good price for cashmere.”
“Me too,” said Sarah. “Over the years I’ve learned to ignore the ‘gentle feedback’ that my mother likes to give. It’s kind of like a dog with an electric fence. What’s the marketing phrase they use? ‘A mild correction?’ She expects me to feel the zap, but I largely ignore it anymore.”
“Wow, that must be hard to do,” the saleslady said while folding Sarah’s new clothes. “She’s pretty forceful.”
“It used to be. And then I moved away.” Sarah smiled. “Sometimes you just have to go out on your own and force everyone, including yourself and your mother, to grow up.”
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