School Shopping
I’m still not sure when it happened, but I now have a full blown teenager on my hands. Pray for me.
Last week, when I returned from my whistle stop tour across the country, H presented me with a list of “must have” items she wanted for school. I don’t know that I can reproduce the list exactly, but it included a new jacket, eight shirts, three pair of jeans, three pair of shoes (running shoes, flats, Converse sneakers), jean shorts, a jean skirt, and an assortment of camisoles, underwear and socks. The list also included suggestions about where I could procure the necessary items: Abercrombie & Fitch, American Eagle, J. Crew and Gap Body.
It was clear that H had put a lot of time and thought into her list. The items were color coded–blue for pants, green for shirts etc.. She’d even signed her name at the bottom–a swirling “H” in some sparkly gel pen. After studying the list closely, all the while running through the list of “must haves” I purchased for her at the beginning of the summer, I began to sweat because I could see we were in for trouble.
I remember what it was like to be thirteen. I remember flipping through the pages of Seventeen magazine and circling all the cute outfits. I remember styling my hair (that God awful perm), trying makeup for the first time, and thinking I looked pretty hot in my Sebica sandals and Chemin de Fer jeans with the sailor buttons. It was a great time. So I didn’t feel completely unprepared when H said she wanted to hit the stores. The problem was, I’ve gotten old–well, older.
Our first stop was the Westfield Mall downtown. I hate malls. I hate the crowds and the lighting and the food courts. I hate those ridiculous kiosks with their desperate sales people who flag you down and try to pawn their skin exfoliating products with salt from the Dead Sea. It’s depressing. but H wanted to go, so go we went.
For those of you who’ve managed to avoid Abercrombie & Fitch, I salute you. First of all, as an African American consumer, I’m supposed to boycott A&F. But H really likes A&F, and some of their stuff is cute. I can’t see myself wearing layers of tissue-thin t-shirts and camisoles and skinny jeans cut so low I can’t even wear underwear, but hey, I’m not exactly twenty-one. So I tried to be a good sport. But let me tell you, walking into the A&F store in the Westfield mall is the closest I’ve come to waterboarding–don’t let that shuttered facade with the perfume wafting from the entrance fool you. Talk about disorder! Talk about noise! Shopping at A&F is like being trapped in a teenagers messy bedroom and an after hours rave club all at the same time. The lighting was so low I had to squint at the price tags–which may have been a good thing because if I’d seen the price tag in the light of day, I would have fallen over. Forty-five dollars for a wafer thin t-shirt that’s going to unravel in the washing machine and shrink in the dryer? Sixty-nine dollars for a pair of jean cut off shorts??? One hundred and eight dollars for a pair of jeans??? You’ve got to be fucking kidding! And H wanted how many shirts??
But the prices were only the beginning. It was actually the music that got me. Now I’m the first person to get out on the dance floor if the groove is right. My ipod has loads of techno and electronica on it, but I’ve got to tell you, the constant pounding nearly drove me insane. It felt like someone was dragging a nail across the insides of my eye lids. That and the piles of clothes, literally, piles of clothes heaped on the mohogany tables and spilling from the shelves–I wanted to scream at the young sales clerks in their low rider jeans and flip flops, “what the hell do you think this place is, your dorm room? Where is your boss? Better yet, where is your mother?” And the lines for the fitting rooms, oh my God, talk about disorganized. There were at least three other people waiting besides us, but the clerk didn’t seem the least bit interested in having us form a line. It was every man for himself. We must have waited twenty minutes before someone opened a dressing room.
And that’s when I took a look around–my first really good look—and noticed that in nearly every oversized photo on the walls, the models–young males with their hairless chests and washboard abs, young women with their bee stung lips and tiny boobs–all looked like they wanted to F*$&# each other. Worse, they looked like they could F$%^* each other. . . all night, every night from now until their thirtieth birthdays. Marketing is marketing, and I know the masterminds behind the A&F brand have their finger on the pulse of this generation. But geez. Does it have to be so blatant? Do they have to give my thirteen year old daughter such a clear window onto her sexual future? Why not just give out a pack of comdoms with every fifty dollar purchase? For a minute, I wanted to drag H of there and head over to the Gap Kids or maybe Gymboree. But those days are long gone. I had to acknowledge that H is right on the cusp of everything that is A&F–maybe not now, but soon.
I know it sounds like I’m complaining, but I’m not. Not really. Aside from the loud music and the sickly sweet smell of the signature fragrance, it was fun to see H doing her thing. She has definite opinions about fashion and a surprisingly good eye (much better than I had at thirteen). And yes, there are plenty of lessons just waiting to be taught–lessons about making choices and spending vs. saving–and we’ve already had some of those discussions–but spending those hours with my oldest daughter was worth the pain.
School starts in less than two weeks. H has a couple of shirts, a cute little jacket and some new jeans. We didn’t get everything on her list (I’m not crazy after all) but we got enough. At least she’s not hitting me up for a pair of Sabicas.