Lost in a big box store

9/4/2024

Well, here I am in a big box store, and it’s happened again. 

The start is simple enough. My wife goes one direction to get granddaughter clothes, and I go to the men’s department to buy my own clothes. And, yes, this is a relatively new experience for me — I’m 70 years old, and I’m now purchasing my own pants like a big boy. I’m pretty proud of that.

And I’ve even developed a fashion sense. My style is baggy pants, baggy shirts, baggy shorts, baggy jackets, and hats for a really fat head. Oddly enough, my wife is not keen on this Paris-driven, high-end fashion look. I’m all right with that. Not all of us can be cutting edge. 

So, I go to the men’s department to search for baggy clothes. I look at the stacks as if I know whether I’m an L or XL or XXL. I don’t. This means I have to use the dressing room. No big deal. 

And I should explain that I have to use the dressing room because I don’t do returns. I can’t just buy clothes and return them if they don’t fit. I blame Catholicism for this. Somehow a return is an admission of doing something really bad — like adultery. You know what I mean. When you eventually get caught with your pants down, you lamely explain to your wife that the woman was actually not your type after all. You know, not a good fit. A return. And what happens next in my mind?

“Attention, shoppers, adulterer trying to make a return at the customer service counter.”

So, no returns for me, thank you.  

I show my items to the woman sorting clothes at the entrance to the changing rooms. She looks at me as if I’m mildly crazed for interrupting her work. Don’t I know how dressing room etiquette works? Not a clue. So, like any credentialed old man, I fake it. 

I open the first door on my right. 

The room is small, white and scary. It’s scary because there is no bench. Did I mention I’m 70 years old with knees that don’t quite bend? And I’m also just a little bit tippy. I’m not complaining, but I can’t stand upright to get my shoes off. And I can’t stand upright to get my pants off. And I can’t stand upright to put on the various sizes of new pants. I can try to stand. But I’m fairly certain I will teeter forward with one leg in and one leg out and smash through the thin walls of the changing room into the lap of the woman sorting clothes. She will scream, and I will spend the rest of my days making license plates with the men I prosecuted a decade ago. Not a pretty picture.

So, I sit on the floor. But, to get to the floor, I have to do a Downward Dog yoga move. Which I do. Then I have to drop down on my stomach, roll over on my back, sit up straight, and try to slip off one leg at a time. Success. Then I have to reverse the process until I’m back in the Downward Dog and then back on my feet. I do that, too. 

The pants don’t fit.

To get a bigger size, I have to get back on the floor of the changing room, take off the new pants, put on my old pants, leave the changing room, grab a larger size, come back to the changing room, smile at the woman sorting clothes, go to my door, get back on the floor, take off the old pants, put on the new pants, and see if they fit. 

ARGGGGHHHH!

I flee the changing room.

I look for my wife. The neon lights, however, make distances deceptive. I walk and walk and walk. Swim goggles for toddlers. I walk and walk and walk some more. Grain-free dog food for large breeds. I start to panic. The neon lights shine brighter. Pretzels stuffed with peanut butter. I do think I could die happy eating pretzels and peanut butter, but I walk and walk and walk, getting weaker and weaker. 

Finally, I realize I have my phone. So I call my wife. No pick up. I call again. No pick up. My vision starts to blur. The world suddenly starts collapsing inward into a big box store implosion.

Help.

My wife stands next to the paper towels.

“Oh, hi,” she says brightly.

I breathe deeply. I have been found. I wipe the sweat off my brow and try to stop shaking. 

Whew!

And then my wife gives me a tip, as loving partners do for each other…

“You know, this store has a procedure for helping lost children that you could have used for yourself.”

My wife tries not to smile.

“For next time,” she says, helpfully.  

So, I’m looking for a divorce lawyer. Do you think they are in aisle 5? Next to the action figures? ♦

Joe Weeg spent 31 years bumping around this town as a prosecutor for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Now retired, he writes about the frequently overlooked people, places and events in Des Moines on his blog: www.joesneighborhood.com.