Not My Size...Thanks Anyway

All other things being equal what other to do on a Tuesday than take advantage of Seniors' Day? So off we went to our not-so-local Salvation Army Thrift Shop. Our local shop is still being re-built, after having been torched by area goodfellas away back in the spring (was it then? I think so). In the meantime, we toddle along to another one which is fairly close but not nearly as nice, spacious and sparkling as our (sob!) old one - soon to be restored to us.

Good fortune is with us this day. We've hardly arrived, not yet in the store itself, and there, in front of it, two abandoned shopping carts. We know they belong there, as most self-respecting shop-owners or purveyors of goods great and small, would be mortified to own up to these two particular carts. They've seen better days, and that's putting it kindly. One for him, another for me, and we're off. Into the store, that is.

Into the child seats go our two little dorgs, in their respective pouches. They make themselves comfortable and begin to doze off as is their wont, post-ravine walk. They're good and quiet, not a peep out of them but it hardly matters, they're noticed by everyone who passes and then they endure good-naturedly, all the pokes and pettings that people insist on gifting them with.

He goes directly off to peruse the books on offer, while I poke about the various clothing racks, looking for items of a certain colour, certain style, certain size; certain I'll come across one or the other, perhaps an item embracing all three categories. A tall, seemingly well-proportioned older woman stops before me and exclaims "you're small! I know just the thing for you".

She explains her disheartening adventure of trying on a nearly-new, black turtle-neck sweater that turned out to be too small, despite that it was labelled as large. Not at all, she said, pointing to the green turtle-neck sweater visible through her open coat "this one I'm wearing is a medium, and it's larger than the so-called large one!". I thanked her and said I'd look for it when I got around to that rack.

Off she went and I took no further notice, but then she returned, with the sweater in hand, gushing as she handed it to me, about how good it would look on me. I lifted it into view and sighed (inwardly), told her she might think it was small but I could readily see it would be too large for me. She looked at me, dumbfounded, and went on extolling its nearly-new virtue. But it's too large for me, I repeated.

She denied it was, and I pointed out to her the area between the armpits, between the neck and the bodice, all meant for a larger woman than me. The disappointment on her face! Still, she stolidly continued that it would indeed fit nicely, and I should re-think it. I smiled at her, thanked her for her trouble, took possession of the black turtleneck (two such of which are already in my wardrobe - and they actually fit me) and placed it in my cart.

Triumph lurked in her nice brown eyes; she saluted me happily, and went off on her own search for adequately-sized garments. I went back to shuffling garments on the rack, looking, looking for something interesting, fascinating, truly different. When I reached the rack where I assumed the black piece had come from, since that's where the black items were assembled, I allowed it to join its sisters.

Not long afterward, a tall (practically anyone is taller than me), nicely garbed older woman happened by, lunged at the cart to tickle Riley on his topknot and garbled hoarsely how she loved dogs; she once had a black one Riley's size and it drove her crazy, with its bark,bark,bark endlessly barking. I smiled sympathetically; I know what's like, I told her. Interesting hairdo; a long white braid looped from the back of her head over one shoulder. I know what that's like too; I used to wear my hair like that aeons ago.

Finally, it's time to remove ourselves from the premises. He's urging me to look at the books he's selected. There's Sylvia Plath's Bell Jar and I tell him I've read it. I pick a junior book by a writer I know of, although the title is unfamiliar - it'll be interesting for our granddaughter. Short story collections, he loves them. I've got a few nice little winter sweaters; no turtle-necks, though.

They look awful on me. Especially since I've just cut my hair. Every time I cut my hair I tend to cut it too short. Now I look, I told him yesterday, like the Bride of Frankenstein. Thanks, he said, dryly. He'd cut his own hair the day previously. Too much did he cut it. Cut it? He buzzed it, close to the scalp. Looks bald, he does. Which, he says, he prefers to looking sloppy. That's us, Frankenstein and wife.

We make our way to the cashier's desk. The young Russian woman is frazzled, as usual, she has too much to do, and asks if we wouldn't mind waiting a minute, she'll be right there, as she hauls off with an armload of garments. A skinny young man, darkly hirsute, tattooed, nose-ringed, drops a load of garments he's carrying over to one of the racks, exclaiming with delight at the presence of our two dogs. He dashes over for a nose-cuddle with Riley, then turns to rub Button's indifferent head.

Our cashier returns, her pretty face weary, as she smiles at us and begins to check out our selections. When she sees the title of the book I've got her face clears and she exclaims "oh!". I ask if she has read the book, but no, she's seen the film made from it, and it was very good. She carefully enunciates her words, and her charming Russian-accented English is immaculate.

Finally, we're through, paid the inconsequential bill, marvel at what so little can purchase and drive off home.