I went shopping this weekend only to be horribly disappointed to learn that despite the -25 degree wind chill, apparently it is spring in Chicago, so stores are stocked with pastel Capri pants and jaunty denim jackets. Procrastinators like me who realize in mid January that they’ve been wearing the same five outfits to work every week for the past four months are relegated to the tables in the backs of stores where piles of unfolded sweaters are pawed at by grubby hands like mine, searching desperately for a size that is not XS.
My fellow shoppers and I circled the table like ravenous wolves looking for bargain sheep, followed closely by the unfortunate sales clerk who had the Sisyphean task of refolding all the garments left in our wake. Eventually I stopped looking at the actual article of clothing itself, and instead focused solely on the tag. I grabbed anything that was M and clutched it to my chest, figuring I could inspect the item once I made my way to the fitting room. Sometimes clothes run big, I thought, so I’d grab an occasional S. But sometimes they also run small, so I grabbed an XL since L’s were as scarce as M’s.
When I got to the fitting room, I found that I had an S sweater in blaze orange, the same sweater in XL, a black M camisole I didn’t even remember touching, a fuchsia M turtleneck, and a bright blue S fitted sweater with a cowl neck and little buttons along the cuffs.
None of these things are clothes I would typically wear, but I wanted to buy them all – even both orange sweaters that didn’t fit – just because they had been reduced to $15.99 or less.
I walked out with just the blue sweater – an unlikely choice. It’s not my color, not really my style, and it’s so tight that when I raise my right arm, the left one automatically follows, but for some reason I felt compelled to buy it. It was only when I put it on this morning that I noticed the smell. As I pulled the neck over my head, I got a distinct whiff of perfume, most definitely not my own.
I lifted up the neck a bit and inhaled deeply. It was sweet, but not overly so. Not musky. Kind of clean, like laundry detergent, but less utilitarian. Wait, I thought. Is this an old lady sweater? Did an old lady try this on and decide against it? Am I now wearing a $12.99 sweater that a heavily scented rail-thin grandmother tossed aside? And how did so much perfume soak into a sweater if she just quickly tried it on? Maybe it smelled like something else – something much, much worse – and the old lady reached into her enormous purse to find her art deco atomizer with the long stem and fancy tasseled bulb and sprayed it directly onto the neck of the sweater because the odor was so vile she couldn’t bear the thought of letting it touch her face again as she removed the offending piece of clothing.
Without so much as a nod to the dressing room attendant, she tossed the sweater back onto the table on her way out, just as I was walking in. Maybe I even smelled her as she passed by, but I was too focused on the sale rack to notice.
As I finished getting ready this morning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. It was like a stranger had wrapped herself around my throat like a little mink and wouldn’t let go. I pulled the neck of my sweater out as I sprayed on a hefty dose of my own perfume. She disappeared for a few minutes, only to return as I made my toast.
She is strong, this old mink.
She kept me company all day – while I rode the half-empty train to work this morning, as I made myself some green tea for the anti-oxidants, when I argued with our Legal department over federal regulations, and as I poured myself a glass of scotch tonight to fight off the chill.
She’s gone now, hanging in my closet making friends with something grey and argyle, no doubt. Sure, she got on my nerves at first, but I think I’ll keep her around for a few more weeks. Not so much for sentimental reasons, but she’s dry clean only and I can’t afford to get rid of her just yet.

Filed under: General on January 21st, 2008