If you need anything to wear at the last minute and only your best friends will see you in bizarre circumstances, ie; me in a unisex meditation pool tomorrow, Ross is the place.
Through the sleet and snow (mild mist), I raced into Ross and went straight to the old lady bathing suit/cover-up/huge plastic tote-bag section and pulled the four least offensive options from the rack. I then did a lap around the store, selecting a discontinued business suit and a polyester cocktail dress which, should it find itself within a foot of an open flame, will probably explode.
I then made my way to the fitting room with my six items and waited patiently by the "8 items at a time" sign as the attendant chatted with a security guard, protecting a bin of hangers.
She finally decided to acknowledge me and grunted, "How many you got?"
"Six." I said, holding them out for her to inspect.
"You got bathing suits?" She presented this as a question, touching the actual bathing suits as she did so.
I indicated that yes, I got bathing suits.
"You can't try these on commando."
Oh my God.
I felt the security guard suddenly listening in.
"Um, I know." Silence. Stares. "I'll leave my underwear on."
"What?" She screamed this. She literally screamed this.
"I WILL LEAVE MY UNDERWEAR ON."
The security guard chuckled.
Ms. Attendant felt the need to explain to me WHY I had to leave my underwear on, which is a universal unspoken rule everyone knows, so much so it often appears in swimsuit tags. I know the whole underwear/swimsuit thing. What about me implies I'll strip down to nothing and get intimate with a $15.99 floral print, skirted, old-lady bathing suit? Her lesson seemed to go on for hours. And the whole time, I just kept saying, "I know. I know."
Finally, I was allowed inside the dressing room and once I'd selected my little nook, I became even more paranoid. Ross' dressing room doors don't lock. They're magnetic. And I became convinced this woman was going to come check on me, making sure that I wasn't raping my Blanche Devereaux swimwear by going "commando."
I picked the bathing suit that seemed the least offensive and raced out of there, handing the rejected clothing back to the attendant, fully expecting her to make me stand there while she ran a blue light over everything.
She didn't and I paid for a 1940's style brown and white polka dot number that will inevitably get some side-eyes at the unisex meditation pool, thus prohibiting any effective meditation...