Awkward to the Maxx
Jun. 26th, 2008 02:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"I think I've discovered the secret of life - you just hang around until you get used to it."
- Charles M. Schulz
On our way home from an errand, my mother wanted to make a quick stop at TJ Maxx, and it after 7 p.m. on a weeknight in Webster I had nothing better to do.
Stores like TJ Maxx and Marshalls (Maxx's sister retailer, under the same corporate umbrella) are not all bad. I myself rely on Marshalls for wardrobe fundamentals like socks and undershirts, designer dress shirts at deep discounts and the occasional accessory. Sometimes, you can uncover a hidden gem or a real conversation piece.
But if you're shopping for casual wear -- anything in which you're concerned about looking "cool" -- you are usually going to be disappointed. Stepping back from the inventory and seeing it with a critical eye, it's a little depressing, like a Home for Wayward Garments, a sartorial orphanage for the past-season and the slightly irregular. (I am talking about the clothes, not the clientele, though the argument could be made.)
The mens' selection being particularly barren on this day, I had to bide my time while my mother took her sweet time browsing the ladies' separates. So I sat down in a naugahyde easy chair, prominently situated right in front of the entrance. I watched women dither back and forth between the register and the clearance racks and listened to the clerk's Rochester accent echo around the upper register.
At one point I gazed toward the front end as someone was entering the store. She looked familiar -- a bit weathered and weary, but familiar. It was The Girl from Spanish Class: more specifically, the popular girl who sat in front of me in junior high school Spanish class for two years in a row.
She ran with the "in" crowd as a real sporty type, congenial enough to acquire some student government power but without the requisite obliviousness of a homecoming queen. She was as intellectually curious, energetic, distracted and self-involved as any teenager.
I can't say that we were friends, exactly -- I think she signed my yearbook but I never had her phone number -- but I always liked her because she didn't treat me like I was in a different social caste, like some of her friends might. Actually, one of the real benefits was that we could vent to each other about things like our friends or significant others without it getting back to our respective inner circles.
(She also inadvertently taught me how to braid hair. I don't know if it was some kind of nervous habit, but she used to take her long, wavy hair, grab three chunks of it, braid it behind her head, apply a scrunchy, then remove the scrunchy, shake out her hair and start all over again. She did this while sitting in front of me during the whole class, every class, for two years, even during exams.)
We lost touch after both of us dropped Spanish (que lastima!) and both became deeply immersed in our social and extra-curricular groups. I think I chatted with her at my ten-year reunion but it's one of the moments from that evening that has faded into a blur.
Anyway, there was instant recognition for each of us as she walked through the door. She smiled, I smiled; she walked over, I stood up. I was unsure about what to do next. She kept moving toward me, meaning that we were going to have to engage in some sort of physical greeting. I first thought about a handshake, though it seemed too formal. The next step up, though, was a hug, which would seem to be overdoing it. What's between a handshake and a hug, I wondered. A high-five? A fist-bump? A kick in the shins?
She hugged me. It felt weird but at least it was the right kind of hug, a fleeting, drive-by style grab-and-go rather than a lingering, hostages-returning-home embrace. More importantly, we only had to come up with a few seconds of small talk because her mom was in the car and waiting for her to make an exchange.
So I said I was fine, and she said she was fine, and we said it was nice to see each other, and that was that. It would be foolish and reckless for me to say she was lying or simply playing along, but she definitely looked tired, a bit worn down by life. It could be that I was just so used to her youthful exuberance, or perhaps she was simply older.
She returned her item, waved goodbye and left.
The encounter was nice, and awkward, and sweet, and embarassing. It makes me think that maybe Webster -- maybe any hometown, maybe the world -- is like TJ Maxx or Marshalls, a place where remaindered, outdated, obsolete and/or slightly irregular people languish until they find someone who appreciates them. It's not always pretty, but neither is life.
- Charles M. Schulz
On our way home from an errand, my mother wanted to make a quick stop at TJ Maxx, and it after 7 p.m. on a weeknight in Webster I had nothing better to do.
Stores like TJ Maxx and Marshalls (Maxx's sister retailer, under the same corporate umbrella) are not all bad. I myself rely on Marshalls for wardrobe fundamentals like socks and undershirts, designer dress shirts at deep discounts and the occasional accessory. Sometimes, you can uncover a hidden gem or a real conversation piece.
But if you're shopping for casual wear -- anything in which you're concerned about looking "cool" -- you are usually going to be disappointed. Stepping back from the inventory and seeing it with a critical eye, it's a little depressing, like a Home for Wayward Garments, a sartorial orphanage for the past-season and the slightly irregular. (I am talking about the clothes, not the clientele, though the argument could be made.)
The mens' selection being particularly barren on this day, I had to bide my time while my mother took her sweet time browsing the ladies' separates. So I sat down in a naugahyde easy chair, prominently situated right in front of the entrance. I watched women dither back and forth between the register and the clearance racks and listened to the clerk's Rochester accent echo around the upper register.
At one point I gazed toward the front end as someone was entering the store. She looked familiar -- a bit weathered and weary, but familiar. It was The Girl from Spanish Class: more specifically, the popular girl who sat in front of me in junior high school Spanish class for two years in a row.
She ran with the "in" crowd as a real sporty type, congenial enough to acquire some student government power but without the requisite obliviousness of a homecoming queen. She was as intellectually curious, energetic, distracted and self-involved as any teenager.
I can't say that we were friends, exactly -- I think she signed my yearbook but I never had her phone number -- but I always liked her because she didn't treat me like I was in a different social caste, like some of her friends might. Actually, one of the real benefits was that we could vent to each other about things like our friends or significant others without it getting back to our respective inner circles.
(She also inadvertently taught me how to braid hair. I don't know if it was some kind of nervous habit, but she used to take her long, wavy hair, grab three chunks of it, braid it behind her head, apply a scrunchy, then remove the scrunchy, shake out her hair and start all over again. She did this while sitting in front of me during the whole class, every class, for two years, even during exams.)
We lost touch after both of us dropped Spanish (que lastima!) and both became deeply immersed in our social and extra-curricular groups. I think I chatted with her at my ten-year reunion but it's one of the moments from that evening that has faded into a blur.
Anyway, there was instant recognition for each of us as she walked through the door. She smiled, I smiled; she walked over, I stood up. I was unsure about what to do next. She kept moving toward me, meaning that we were going to have to engage in some sort of physical greeting. I first thought about a handshake, though it seemed too formal. The next step up, though, was a hug, which would seem to be overdoing it. What's between a handshake and a hug, I wondered. A high-five? A fist-bump? A kick in the shins?
She hugged me. It felt weird but at least it was the right kind of hug, a fleeting, drive-by style grab-and-go rather than a lingering, hostages-returning-home embrace. More importantly, we only had to come up with a few seconds of small talk because her mom was in the car and waiting for her to make an exchange.
So I said I was fine, and she said she was fine, and we said it was nice to see each other, and that was that. It would be foolish and reckless for me to say she was lying or simply playing along, but she definitely looked tired, a bit worn down by life. It could be that I was just so used to her youthful exuberance, or perhaps she was simply older.
She returned her item, waved goodbye and left.
The encounter was nice, and awkward, and sweet, and embarassing. It makes me think that maybe Webster -- maybe any hometown, maybe the world -- is like TJ Maxx or Marshalls, a place where remaindered, outdated, obsolete and/or slightly irregular people languish until they find someone who appreciates them. It's not always pretty, but neither is life.
