After work yesterday, I decided to swing by my neighborhood Old Navy to look into some cheap denim skirts. I loaded my arms with apparel and headed for the unisex dressing rooms. Apparently, my letter writing campaign worked and Old Navy has finally lifted the dressing room limit of 8 items. Thus, me and my 16 skirts and coordinated tops entered room #8 and I immediately removed my clothes.
I dove in and out of skirts and blouses, mixing olive colored blazers with distressed bootcuts, entirely lost in my world of inexpensive and poorly made sweat shop products. Suddenly, I hear someone fumbling with the door handle of my room. Using the standard public restroom line, I screamed, “Someone’s in here!”, assuming this would do the trick.
No such luck.
The rocket scientist hired to handle the fast paced environment of the Old Navy dressing room was oblivious, and with a key still attached to their belt, unlocked my door and flung it open. I found an entire Filipino family staring at me in my underwear, shocked into silence at the sight of me with half a shirt on and a mini-skirt around my ankles. Even I was appalled at how absolutely dreadful I looked, threw my hands up in the air in defeat and said, in perhaps a slightly rude tone, “Anything I can help you with?”
The key-happy attendant muttered, “Sorry, ma’am”, making me feel not only ugly, but now old, and slowly closed the door.
I buttoned my shirt while staring at myself in the mirror, wondering how the world managed to constantly conspire against me. After that, everything I tried on looked horrible and I gave up. I was terrified to leave room #8, although I don’t know why. After all, about 5 people had just seen me as close to naked as I ever get. None the less, I hid behind my armfuls of crap and booked it out of there, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
It didn’t matter. I’m positive news of humiliation had already made its way around the store via those shitty little headsets anyway…