Welcome to the rabbit's hole. A blog on pulp.
Do you like shopping? Yeah? Me too. And that’s why I visit regularly the local cheap but also big trendy fashion store. Lately I got some time (heck knows where I stole it), I got nothing to do and I got my girlfriend.
Well, do you know this? This feeling, a little bit uneasy, actually somewhat awkward feeling, that’s afflicting you if you are coincidently went in the wrong section? To find oneself between some odd shaped trousers and weird thin rags, which use you can neither anticipate nor know about?
Apart from this — a warehouse is a wonderful institution: you go in, you try to find some good stuff, you loose yourself between a far to huge collection, you get some consultations from nice shop assistants and finally you stroll out with the happy experience that your demands are satisfied.
I for myself, I like warehouses. You can enjoy the benefits of a society, made completely anonymous, without any need to salve your consciences and — after mumbling “Thanks, I was just looking ’round…” — hide yourself behind some hallstands, should any shop assistant look doubtful at your very personally selection. And unseen as you are you vanish through the main entrance, which is crammed with people and assimilates your grateful self. It is marvelous.
My girlfriend, however, she goes straight in the lion’s den without any significant hint of awe: the section for underwear and dessous. For women.
“Underwear” tells me dictionary, “is worn directly on the body. Underwear in today’s meaning, is a product of the 19th century, though we can prove single pieces, worn to support or secure, far earlier.” Support and secure! I wonder if it supports the one she wears the stuff, supposed she comes in this section of the warehouse. Me, for my part, feels quite wishy-washy, weaving through between pink gaze and glittering strass cloth-somethings, looking rather than cords than clothing, always trying not to stick staring at something.
And then suddenly, out of my praised wonderful namelessness — calls me a shop assistant. A creature modeled of concentrated attention with the most precious row of teeth that was presented to me yet. “Do you look for something special?” The dessous section is deserted, like after a closing down sale. Despite of a dozen eyes, staring definitely in the direction, in which my humble self is placed. I stammer, I try to say, I just wait for my girlfriend, I try to say placidly, that I never intended to look somewhere else, than out of the placarded window. I try to put on my sunglasses and grumble “Hey, folks, do I look as if I had your size?” I try, again, try, again, stammer, stumble, gulp. I cannot hide behind the hallstands.
Why, for heaven’s sake, why is there no world without those semitransparent hells?!
There are times and places, where man wants to be someone else and hide behind the broad back of his boyfriend, who saves him from this ugly, strange world out there. Sometimes I feel so lonely in this anonymized world when she pays attention to me.
Sometimes, but only sometime,s I get a heart attack, if somebody asks behind me: “Oh dear, you didn’t feel boring, do you?”