What the hell?

One day, not all that long ago, I was in dire need of undergarments. So I went to one of the fancy little underwear stores at the mall to peruse a selection that offered comfort, quality and style. I made my way into one little hut and began to glance about. I came upon a table with a sign that said 3/$15. This deal seemed acceptable, so I began to assess my options. Now, this store had a very clever plan. They had a fine oak table, upon which the underwear was kindly laid in pristine, straight rows. Row one, the row farthest to the left, was a row of size small. The row was arranged according to colour, the top inch of each pair visible so one did not have to partake in an unclassy rummage. Next to this row, in the middle, was the size medium row. On the far right, the large row, and on the shelf below sat the extra-large pairs.

For all of you who have been dying to know since you met me, I usually invest in size medium. So, I stood gently prodding the medium row for the colour and style combinations I enjoyed. As I was happily searching, a sales representative obligatorily approached me from the side.

“Can I help you find your size?” she asked.

I clearly did not need help, as I was clearly looking through the medium row, so I responded, “no – I’m fine thank you.”

But instead of walking away like a regular disgruntled sales person should do, the woman hesitated. She made a slight motion, as if she felt she should leave, but then remained, gazing upon me. She made a hesitant move, then a hesitant sound, and then blurted,

“Well . . . are you looking for size extra-large?”

My eyes stopped scanning. My torso slowly rose. My head slowly turned to the left. I affixed my eyes into contact with her eyes. My hand let go of the size medium it was holding, letting it fall to the table in a repulsive crumpled heap. I opened my mouth and paused.

“Nnnoooo.” I said clearly.

I turned back to the table, made a disgusted face, and abruptly left.

What the hell?