Tips For Holiday Shopping: Part the First

First off, I want to wish each and every single one of the brave men and women who have and who continue to fight for our freedom here in the US a Happy Veteran's Day --- thank you so much for all that you do. My grandfather, an 88-year old World War II vet, is one of the most determined, inspiring and wise men I have ever known, and to him, I wish a particularly Happy Veteran's Day and heartfelt thank you for all that he has given to his country. We love you!

....There is no appropriate segue into the next topic, so on that note, let's just dive in.

So, as I was showering the other day and singing "Dominick the Donkey" (long story short: a homeless man had serenaded the entire green line train with it the night before... and now that you've remembered it exists, YOU try getting it out of your head), I realized that the holiday season is, crazily, almost upon us. The upsetting part here isn't that we are barely ten days into November and I am already pontificating on the true meaning of Christmas (and all other holiday seasons), but that this season inevitably brings about a minor panic attack, triggered entirely by my memories of holiday shopping hell.

You see, I worked in a major national department store from the age of 16 until I was 20. As anyone who has ever worked in retail can tell you, those four years basically qualified me for "Lifer" status -- a true honor, I assure you. I met some of my best friends and made some of my best memories at that job. In fact, I even chose it as the inspiration for my final work for my Creative Fiction class in college, aptly titled Retail Therapy. While serving my time as a credit-application shilling underling, I worked in every department but mens' suits, window dressing and catalog, including, but not limited to: shoes, stock, visual, lingerie, women's, kid's, petites, juniors, fine jewelry, fragrance, accessories and dresses. Fun fact about your author: I am qualified to fit you for both shoes and jewelry, and am also a certified bra fit specialist.

I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am a real blast at parties.

Aside from giving me the opportunity to hone these talents, my stint in retail taught me a lot about people in general. I know the prevailing thought is that nothing can teach you more about people than food service, but given my experience, I'd venture a guess that retail is a very close second... particularly around the holidays. Which is why I have taken it upon myself to offer up some tips for the upcoming holiday shopping season, from the perspective of a former retail slave employee:

- Don't bitch to the dude at the register about the Christmas music that started playing the day after Halloween. I'd be willing to wager any amount of money that the employees hate it even MORE than you do. Look, you're in the store for what, an hour, tops? Those poor saps are stuck there between four and a half and nine hours at a time, making $7/hr. Know how long that soundtrack lasts? Two hours. It's six years later and I can still sing "Frosty, the Snowman" in four different styles, including calypso. Don't even get me started on "Santa Baby." And remember: it's not Christmas music. It's Winter Holiday Sounds. 

- Trust me, I get as annoyed as you do when an item rings up at a higher price than the sign said it should, but that does not give you a license to take it out on the clerk. As a consumer, this is one of the most frustrating aspects of shopping. You get all excited over a seemingly too-good-to-be-true purchase, get to the register, and BAM! The item rings up at twice the price you expected. Quel horreur! Just remember: it isn't the sixteen year old behind the register's fault; the store has an entire stock/pricing/visual team in charge of these things. Homegirl is just trying to scrape enough pennies together to afford a really fancy date with her boyfriend. At Chili's.

- Don't assume that the creepy man selling you your shoes has a secret life as a pervert. He might just be really socially awkward, and his colleagues might be in the midst of a plot to set him up with the crotchedy old cat lady from the lingerie department (true story).

- Also, don't assume that the person behind that counter is any less intelligent and/or accomplished than you are. There is this pervasive mentality from before the dot-com bust that retail = college dropouts/teenagers/lower middle-upper lower class. In the event that you haven't read Bitter is the New Black, by my idol, Jen Lancaster (in which case, why are we even friends?), let me enlighten you: Times are tough. A lot of people lost everything when the market crashed and are now doing anything to try to make ends meet. Aside from the facts that it's the holiday season AND there is never a reason to treat anyone like shit, keep in mind that your condescending 'tude could be directed at the former head of a company who is one step away from climbing back to the top... where he could become your boss. Plus, it's just rude.

- Parents, don't threaten your kids with, "the lady is going to get mad at you" unless you want me to tell your kid he just won a free supply of  chocolate bars, then hand him a bag full of the sugary goodness left over from a previous Willy Wonka-style sale. This used to drive. me. NUTS. While adorable little Johnny is spitting in little sister Susie's face, causing her shrieks and snarls to echo throughout the cavernous walls of the store, please don't tell them to behave, "or the lady will yell at you." This rule is multiplied by infinity when it comes to you asking me to "tell him! If he doesn't behave, you're going to send all of his clothes right back to those racks!". I don't have kids for a reason, and I sure as hell am not going to discipline yours. Parent already.

There are plenty more, which I am working on compiling into a second post, but those are five of the more valuable nuggets of wisdom that I have to bestow upon my fellow holiday shoppers. I urge you to keep them in mind over the next seven weeks or so, and to remember to treat others as you would want to be treated. Which is why I am now going to leave you with a little something that someone recently left me.



Hee-haw! Hee-haw!

Like a Julia Child Croissant

One thing that I think most women in their 20s and 30s can relate to is the friend who shows up out of the blue, sobbing hysterically because she has once again had her heart broken by her not-quite-boyfriend-but-full-on-jerkfriend (For the record, I'm not being judgey here; I think we can also all relate to being that friend at some point of our lives -- my time to shine came in college and lasted a good year or so). You know the drill: they show up randomly, after months of basically disappearing from the planet, SWEARING to really take a stand and stop dating DBs who make them feel like shit about themselves. THIS TIME, they swear, they will not succumb to the power of the jerk. THIS TIME, things will be different. THIS TIME, they will conquer their issues once and for all and finally reach out and claim the happiness that they deserve. And then the next jerk comes calling and the cycle repeats itself all over again.

I thought those days were well behind me, relegating me to the role of Official Pep Talker. Except I've been thinking a lot lately, and while it's easy to roll the ol' eyes at those friends who seem to be in possession of a Jerk Magnet, it turns out I'm just as flaky as they are. Except my boyfriend is named Fat Ass.

 Julia knows ALL ABOUT flaky [Source]

 

 

You see, I really want to break things off with Fat Ass, or Fatty as I prefer to call him, but he's like the boomerang boyfriend from hell. I've tried everything to get rid of him: the old "it's not you, it's me" trick; the "I'm cheating on you with Spinning" speech; hell, I've even tried to wean myself off him gradually through the whole "intuitive eating" schtick (man, was that a bust). Yet every time I start to feel better after dumping his sorry self, he manages to find some way to weasel his way back into my life. He tempts me with a box of gourmet Godiva truffles. He sweet-talks my friends and colleagues into speaking highly of him, coercing me into giving him a second (or third. Or fourth. Or ninetieth) chance. On days like yesterday, when I'm feeling firm in my resolve to ditch his ass once and for all and accept a lovely lunch date for a threesome with Turkey Chili and Side Salad, here comes Fat Ass, bearing Bertucci's and threatening to sabotage my new relationships at every turn.

Seriously, Fat Ass, WHY ARE YOU SO OBSESSED WITH ME?!

[Source]

I know this "weight loss flakiness" is something that a lot of people struggle with. I know it's also a trait that annoys the hell out of some readers. It annoys me to constantly be writing these, "today is the day enough is enough!" posts, only to find myself composing variations on a theme a few weeks, months, hell -- it's been over a year! -- later.

One part of my problem is that I have the attention span of a gnat. I get all amped up to do something, set my goals, pep-talk myself to death and then enact Phase I of The Plan. Weight loss, grad school, race training -- it doesn't matter, I inevitably end up a week or two in to it and suddenly find that something else is more interesting and I want to do that instead. This is why it was just short of a miracle that I actually spent 12 straight weeks committed to the same goal and actually finished the half; some recycling plant floor here in Boston is littered with the remains of countless 5k and 10k training plan efforts I started and abandoned before that.

The other main reason I have trouble really committing to losing weight is actually very simple: it can be totally alienating. Say what you will, but it is my personal experience that, particularly in my age group, the primary means of social interaction occur over food and drink. Sure, there's the old, "soda water and lime" trick, but if you've ever actually tried it, you probably know that one of two things is likely to happen: 1) while you're gettin' fizzed, everyone else is getting buzzed, having a great time and giving you the stabbies because, who knew? drunk people are annoying as all hell; or 2) someone catches onto your little trick, and the next thing you know there is an ACTUAL vodka soda sitting on the table in front of you, not to mention a plate of nachos and queso dip staring you down from 2 chairs away. Peer pressure is real, yo.

[Source]

Given that I'm a child of the 80s and have seen enough "Just Say No" commercials to make even my DARE officer cringe, it seems like it would be easy enough to say, "I'll just stay home and/or stick to my guns with my water and iceberg lettuce." But for someone who spent over a year hiding in a dorm room to avoid dealing with people and literally breaking into cold sweats at the thought of answering a phone call, the prospect of giving up what social life I do have is terrifying. I've come a long way with dealing with my issues, but that doesn't mean they aren't still there each and every day.

And so, much like my dirtbag-detector-challenged friends, I continue to perpetuate this dysfunctional relationship with Fat Ass and engage in a warped unhealthy cycle of shame. 

As of Tuesday, November 1st, I am yet again actively working to end this relationship with Fat Ass. I'm not going to say "once and for all" this time because I know myself, and I know that as soon as I put a really high expectation on it, I'm going to feel all antsy and obligated and decide that now is actually the perfect time to take up underwater basket-weaving, so I should really be devoting all of my attention to that, instead.

I'm not following any specific "plan", per se, but more melding the thousands of tips and techniques I've picked up over the 20 years that I've been struggling with weight. There are a few plans I've been borrowing from more than others; that's another post for another day. I've been tracking all of my calories, including  the 9 miniature snickers on Wednesday, without guilt or pressure. I'm mostly eating wholesome, natural foods but let's be real here, I'm never giving up full-fat cheese or eating diet salad dressing again, and I don't think there is a place for absolutes in my diet. I'm still going to drink wine; I just won't be drinking it with a side of TJ's pumpkin ice cream and a slab of kosher smoked gouda when I'm at home. I've worked out each of the last 3 days, and although I could barely move yesterday, I'm happy about it.

So, that's that. I probably won't update toooo much on this endeavor, because like I said, it's nothing particularly earth-shattering and I'm sure you're all sick of hearing I've dumped Fat Ass on his, well... Fat Ass again. So, I'll try to keep the weighty subjects to a minimum and write about more important things, like Chuck Bass and my list of HGCs. And with any luck, I will one day introduce you all to my newest interest:

Hard Ass.