During my brief but meaningful stint in high end retail, there were customers who were known for their eccentricities. When these regulars walked in the door, all of our eyes would meet, and eyes would roll. We loved our customers, all of them, but some were tougher to love than others.
The tiny gorgeous 40-year old brunette who cried in the dressing room mirror because she knew her husband would tell her she looked fat in her XXS tights. I told her to buy the tights because she looked gorgeous, then go home and poison his dinner. She would always laugh. I hope that he is dead and now resides in the fourth circle of Dante’s hell.
The slovenly middle-aged woman who never bought anything but kept the floor staff waiting on her hand and foot for hours. “Get me this,” and “Get me that.” She. Never. Bought. Anything. Not in the entire two years I worked there. Not one thing.
The old wrinkly woman who would wait until she was totally naked then ask you to help her with something in her dressing room. Then she would stand there until you got a good look at her wizened knockers. Exhibitionism at its finest.
And finally Anne, the lovely woman with the sweet personality who shopped for hours and hours and hours every week, and then three to four days after her purchase, she would return everything. Everything. Then complain about the merchandise like she hadn’t just drooled all over it a few days earlier. Of course we always took it back gracefully, and we came to a tacit agreement that she was just lonely, and enjoyed the social aspect of the store. But we couldn’t help but wonder:
Don’t these people have anything better to do with their time than shop and return? Shop and return? Shop and return?
Yesterday gave me pause to feel shame at this insight, because as I was driving to UPS to return packages, I realized I had become that person I was complaining about. I had done this shopping dump on Amazon, and almost immediately after arriving at my doorstep, the merch was bagged and ready for return.
The reasons? Well, I’m petty, and here are the reasons I typed into Amazon for “Reason for Return”:
A book: The cover is creased.
A sweater: It makes me look like Bea Arthur.
A coffee mug: The handle is condescending AF.
A red glass pitcher: It’s mocking me.
A desk calendar of an author who I’m jealous of: For spite.
I stole that last one from “Seinfeld.” Here ya go: