Pontiac Dreams In Movement.

Yesterday I was shopping with my mom. She was trying on some jeans, and she complained that they were the wrong fit. I examined the situation and decided another size in another cut might just be necessary. So I hussled over to the denim aisle and found a size and cut that I thought would just yell age-appropriate edgy. As I approached the dressing rooms I was actually addressed by this dowdy sac of a woman who I'm sure was named Barb, and she said she would have to take the jeans to my mother.

"I'm sorry they're young girls in there. I'll have to take those. Mothers get nervous."

"Right..."

I'm not sure what offended me more. Barb assuming I was a heterosexual, or her suggesting I could be a sexual predator. Actually I do know. But I really feel good for the parents who can relax knowing there's an impenetrable gooey buffer between their daughters first-day-of-school outfit debacle, and my handing my mother a properly fitting pair of jeans. Actually, I think the whole world just smells safer when I'm standing safely in the middle of Junior Miss Sportswear. What in GOD's name is Junior Miss Sportswear? And while we are on the subject do you really need a belt if your pants fit.

I'm not sure it matters though. She kept mumbling those words to herself. "They're very young very young, young girls in there. I'll take those, mothers nervous, very young, young young and nervous."

Barb suffers from what I like to call a fever of the nerves.