Filene’s Basement is a discount department store headquartered in downtown Boston. I went there yesterday. It was hell.
To begin, I should explain that I am not much of a shopper. I take after my father. He is affectionately known as “The Spoiler.” He has spoiled many a quick run to the mall. That he must pick something out or help someone else pick something out of the rows and rows and stacks and stacks and shelves and shelves of stuff is beyond him. He imagines a shopping experience wherein clothes that are beautiful and fit perfectly are simply brought to the house.
I’d also like a personal shopper. But the cost is insurmountable. And so is my pride. Though I hate shopping, I feel a grim satisfaction that it is I who spent the afternoon in a long line at the return desk, I who sorted through a pile of DKNY knockoffs, I who—exhausted and fed up—finally found a decent wedding dress. I am my own personal shopper. Me. Elizabeth. Ha! Ha! (This is where I pause to beat my chest.)
Visiting the dentist without crying, brining a turkey successfully in the bathtub and without the proper tools—these things make me feel like an adult. I may not do them with grace, but I do them. I am a bulldog. I am sheer will, I tell you, sheer will. I’ll shop on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving when everybody is out bagging stocking stuffers. Why not? It’s no worse than any other day. The lesson here is that you pull yourself up by your Puritan bootstraps and get through it.
So anyway, there I was in the return/exchange line. Mind you, “line” is Filene’s Basement’s word, not mine. I would describe it as more of a labyrinth, fluorescently-lit, girded by steel stanchions and guarded by irritated, impatient plainclothes security guards. “Go!” one shouted, pointing to an opening with his nightstick. I walked up to the bulletproof glass. The woman behind the glass did not say, “Can I help you?” in a friendly, helpful voice. Of course, she couldn’t help me. Neither could her manager. What I had was a “void,” a transaction of the very highest degree.
I was ushered into a backroom where I was asked to divulge personal information, like why I was returning this dress so soon after I had bought it. Why? Why? It was like a police interrogation. If they had had a flashlight, they would have shone it on my face. I tried to be calm. I replied that I’d gone upstairs into Filene’s proper and found another dress that was more to my liking. They stared at me, disgusted. “So this other dress, you like it better than our dress, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“You like it better. Why?”
“The buttons are nicer.”
“Uh-hunh,” the tall woman said, writing something in her notebook. She handed me my check. The word VOID was stamped across it. “You are free to go. Get out of here.”
I grabbed my license, passport, and purchase and moved out of that store faster than the speed of light. I’m never going back there, I thought to myself. Never, never, never. But of course, I will. Because now I need shoes; shoes to go with the wedding dress.
Meet the Parents
After my father congratulated Javier and me on our engagement, he took me aside and offered the following advice: KISS. It stands for Keep It Simple, Stupid.
That’s my dad—always the pragmatist, never the romantic. It is strange that he studied Victorian Literature in college because I have never known him to be “worked up” or fluttery. Unlike Oscar Wilde, he does not see the value of linen handkerchiefs or of pretending to be Earnest in town and Jack in the country. However, my dad does like caviar. It’s his one nod to the outrageous and flamboyant and its consumption is limited to New Year’s Eve.
Elizabeth Miller Bastos, a displaced Pittsburgher, currently lives in Cambridge, MA with her husband Javier and an assortment of fish and plants. She daylights as a mid-level fundraising executive and moonlights as a freelance writer. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's, The Appalachian Mountain Club Magazine, JewishHistory.com, Poetism.com and in Inkwell Magazine. She can be reached at seapup_3@juno.com.
