The outfit was determined weeks in advance, with a combination of trendy, chic, and literary (if that’s even possible) in mind. Tuesday, April 13 was my first public event to promote the publication of Nerdy Thirty, and I was certain every detail needed to be just so. I took painstaking time selecting my ensemble, whose centerpiece was a lovely linen blazer featuring the prettiest shades of browns, whites, and creams. The blazer would be paired with to-die-for brown clog sandals, a brown blouse, a flowing strand of (fake) pearls, and slightly worn denim capris that said, “I’m serious enough to wear a jacket today, but just fun enough to sport jeans to a luncheon whose name rings of absolute and pure professionalism.”
The jacket was purchased well before my speaking engagement and never worn to ensure its appearance was in tip-top shape. While getting ready, with just moments to spare before leaving the house, I checked the mirror one last time to ensure my appearance was as close to flawless as humanly possible. And that’s when I saw it: that damn, institutional-beige security tag that the birdbrained sales associate forgot to remove upon my purchase.
What I find so side-splittingly hilarious is that the said teenage female wasted no precious breath alerting me to various perfumes, shoes, and other accessories I didn’t need or want that were on sale. She rambled on and on about upcoming sales and how I could save “ten percent TODAY by opening our credit card!” And as she did this, I nervously checked and re-checked my watch, knowing I would be late to a meeting.
With her two tank tops, hooded cardigan, a bevy of bangle bracelets, shredded denim jeans that pooled around her ankles, and nauseatingly blue nail polish, she stuffed my blazer in a plastic bag, and out the door I ran.
As flustered as I found myself this morning, forced to completely rethink my ensemble before this very important luncheon, I said a silent prayer for the Tulle yellow and gray dress hanging – still unworn – in my closet. I stripped to my skivvies, with sandals still on, and quickly and rather sloppily ironed the delicate pleats that adorn the collar. I changed earrings, stepped back into the dress, and dashed out the door.
While doing so, I mentally drafted (1) a script to use the next time I visited the store for the removal of that security tag; and (2) a razor-sharp letter alerting the store’s management to my dilemma and disgust.
The aforementioned blazer still sits at home with the plastic tag protruding from the side, mocking me all the while. But I wonder: is it worth saying anything to the store?
What would you do?