cardigan love

“no no, it’s the one that’s on the top rack. Yeah. That one. Can you pull one down in my size?”

I watched as my new boyfriend tottered around on a step ladder trying to hook a cardigan for me. He ascended to the tips of his toes making his Converse shoes squeak and whine attempting to hold him up. The best part? I had already come in earlier in the week to do the exact same thing. But he didn’t seem to remember me as vividly as I did him.

My “boyfriend” was some dashingly bright-faced kid working at American Apparel. I was loathe to admit to people that I shopped in there and worse still was me flying off the handle to defend the classic items from there that I bought. It’s not like I was getting kitted out in skinny jeans and some neon abortion trendy shirt. I stuck to simple things like tshirts and v-neck shirts… and my irreplaceable cardigan. On the down low I was a closeted nail polish freak and usually applied something horrible to my feet. It’s not like anyone was around wanting to suck on them so who gives a frig?

Back to the cardigan.

No.

The Cardigan.

It was perfect. it mated well with a shirt/tie combo or draped over a tshirt. It managed to always hang onto my cedar and sandalwood oil cologne regardless of how many times it was cranked through the laundry. In fact, my love affair with the American Apparel Boy was sparked from him gripping my forearm and taking in a deep whiff of the cologne one day when I stopped in.

“What IS that?!” [deep inhale] “oh god… it’s so nice.” [snuffing up and down like a little puppy] “I love this!”

I narrowly avoided letting the boy see my eyes roll back in the throngs of joy. Or how I was starting to lean in to kiss the back of his head. I can’t help it! You don’t just watch a puppy! You LOVE the puppy. Still, in this case I know a metaphor can only extend so long before you get charged with 3rd degree assault sucking on what is more than likely underage ear lobes.

“it’s just a little something I like to whip up…. For… special occasions.” Deep breath and will the boner to die down.

“mmm it’s yummy!”

You’re yummy. I could just lick my two fingers and stuff it right up…

Ahem.

“yeah! Thanks! I could…” no. don’t come up with an excuse to lure him to your house. But you live just around the corner… he could come over for tea and a rim job. I bet he tastes like jellybeans.

Jelly beans?!?

Where the hell did that come from?

“I could write it down for you. Or like…” I felt dizzy. His tight little shirt was rolling up at the side and I wanted to give him a savage hickey.

“like I could just… ahem… clothes. Yes. Yes I need clothes.”
“sure! What’re you looking for?”

American Apparel by definition was well-stocked with useless twits who looked at me wandering around with a mixture of pity and disdain. A few levels away from what one does when a homeless guy wanders in. you don’t want to make eye contact but you want to come up with a way to get the threat hustled out the door as soon as possible. I may be dumpy and unpalatable compared to the demographics they aimed for, but god damn it! I have money that I want to waste on over-priced clothing items too!

For the most part I resisted any help from sales staff because simply, they weren’t helpful. A request to find something was usually akin to asking them to stab a child in the face. Undesirable and unthinkable. It cut into social chatting time which was primarily catty conversations and picking at sparkly tights that were forever creeping up their skinny asses. It became a challenge to impulse shop in there without alerting anyone to my presence. Sure, there were a few people who tracked me down but I would gesture wildly to the items I had already picked up to indicate that no intervention was required. This plan worked well until Twinky Puppy.

Twinky Puppy had that rare mix of youth and an actual understanding of how retail works. That being, you help sell things to customers and in fact, encourage them to purchase more. And that golden rule shines all the more clearly with a good looking soul flush with a passion to help. So my little friend crested out from behind a rack of 80’s styled shirts and avoiding the stereotype of angels calling from the skies, I will just say I was thrilled to see him. And it’s never angels for me. It’s usually a dark filter and purple smoke. I prefer something a little more metal when daydreaming about boys.

Back to the moment and an eager face asking if I need help.
oh yes you can.
“yep, I’m looking for this cardigan in another colour.”
“what colour?”
“all of them.”
“what size?”
“xl I believe.”
“oo, really? I don’t think they make it in xl.”

He boldly grabbed a corner and turned it out to look at the size tag. Wouldn’t you know? It’s a large. Too bad I’ve come in here 4 other times and begged the sales staff to look for an xl and none of them have come to the realization that it doesn’t even exist.

“large! Sure let me go grab some. Hey!”
“ya?”
“how do you feel about double-breasted cardigans?”
“violently opposed to them. Like I need to wear something that accentuates how my body shape is refrigerator-like.”
“I don’t like badmouthing the product…” [swooning with pride that a sales person understands these things] “…but I think they’re super ugly. They only really work on super tall and super skinny. I look like I’m wearing my mom’s sweater… not hot.”
“ah, I’m sure you can get away with it… but they’re certainly a horrifying idea to update the look of something classic like a cardigan.”

He grinned and looked wiggly as he rooted around for a size for me.

Awash in thoughts of him gripping the rack and screaming as I railed him into the ugly neon shirts littered with over-sized graphics….

“here’s one!”

“nice! Well I’ll take this one for now….” And come in obsessively for the next month and buy each colour from you.

That’s not TOO terribly unhealthy. At least it’s not like the boy in the coffee shop that I creeped the hell out of when I offered to give him a ride home on the handlebars of my bike. You learn from those experiences…