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Ways in which I'm not a girl.
My mother wanted to go shoe shopping today. Excellent, I thought; I can get new dress-up shoes for summer. Sure, I'll go, I said.
After the hour and a half it took me to buy two pairs of shoes, I spent another two hours organzing fanart as a way to decompress. I should've known better.
It started out by being told I needed to get rid of my beloved comfy pink jacket, continued by being told I needed to stop gaining weight, went on to not be able to talk to any of the sales people because there weren't enough of them to do more than give me two minutes of talk and then go get some new shoes from the storage room, and after about an hour I was scratching my arm up hard. And of course I was told to stop, and I did, and then I started again. I stopped entirely when she made a move over to me. Before I left, I went to the bathroom and hyperventillated a little bit.
The worst part is that I wanted to get some new shoes. Sandals. Footware appropriate for summer months when Chuck Taylors would be inappropriate, such as professional conferences or religious ceremonies. I tried talking to one of the salesmen, doing my best to describe what I wanted - something with straps that went over the top of my foot and around my ankle with a good sole for standing and walking - and learned there wasn't a specific term for the Platonic ideal I was chasing. I'd really been hoping he could say something like "you want a 23-19 in a brown or black" and pull out a shoe catalog with a cross-referenced index. Instead, well. At least I've got them now.
I would've preferred to work on cover letters. And that's saying something.
After the hour and a half it took me to buy two pairs of shoes, I spent another two hours organzing fanart as a way to decompress. I should've known better.
It started out by being told I needed to get rid of my beloved comfy pink jacket, continued by being told I needed to stop gaining weight, went on to not be able to talk to any of the sales people because there weren't enough of them to do more than give me two minutes of talk and then go get some new shoes from the storage room, and after about an hour I was scratching my arm up hard. And of course I was told to stop, and I did, and then I started again. I stopped entirely when she made a move over to me. Before I left, I went to the bathroom and hyperventillated a little bit.
The worst part is that I wanted to get some new shoes. Sandals. Footware appropriate for summer months when Chuck Taylors would be inappropriate, such as professional conferences or religious ceremonies. I tried talking to one of the salesmen, doing my best to describe what I wanted - something with straps that went over the top of my foot and around my ankle with a good sole for standing and walking - and learned there wasn't a specific term for the Platonic ideal I was chasing. I'd really been hoping he could say something like "you want a 23-19 in a brown or black" and pull out a shoe catalog with a cross-referenced index. Instead, well. At least I've got them now.
I would've preferred to work on cover letters. And that's saying something.
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And you have some sandals now, but I might suggest that Teva has some great dressy-ish sandals that are built for great comfort, too. For future reference.
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You have no idea how happy I was to switch to Chuck Taylors after years of bulky sneakers. No idea. Touch is important.