Thursday, August 4, 2011

Things that would only happen to Kara Frank

My lovely husband informed me last night that my blog content had been 'lacking' lately. Apparently he did not appreciate hearing about how my toes were squeezed to numbness.

And so, without further ado, I bring you, a super-embarrassing, almost-to-embarrassing for my blog, story of late.

A couple of weeks ago I had an afternoon off of work, and decided to do some shopping. I had purchased a gift certificate for a local boutique at one of those oh-so-popular half price sites that are pretty amazing. I was pretty stoked to use it, and buy something fun and new for fall.

I drive to the store, park and walk in. The time is mid-afternoon on a Friday, when people who have enough money to shop in this store, should be at work. And so, it is me, and the store clerks, and nobody else.

I begin to browse the racks, picking out two shirts to try. The saleswoman quickly pounces on me, asking if I wanted to try on some skinny jeans. (A. If I had wanted skinny jeans, I would have picked some out, and B. this girl, doesn't do skinny jeans. They're not my thing.)  Regardless, I am convinced to play dress-up and try on her chosen garments.

I put on shirt #1, and skinny jeans #1, #2, #3 and finally, #4 is decent enough to leave the dressing room. I walk out of the dressing room wearing the $165 skinny jeans she has chosen for me (truly the only reason I tried them on was because the style name was called: Kara), and the 4 inch spike heels she has picked out for me.

I contend that anyone's behind looks amazing in 4 inch spike heels, $165 jeans or not.

So I strut around the store in the skinny jeans, 4 inch spike heels and shirt (the only redeeming article of clothing on me). The sales ladies ooh and ahh at how great the jeans look (again, who doesn't look great in massive heels). They tell me to go in the dressing room and try on the other shirt with the jeans.

For some reason I do as they ask, though never before in my life have I done as I am told. Regardless, I proceed to the dressing room to try on the second shirt with the jeans. The jeans were mildly acceptable, and they were even kind-of growing on me.

And so, I think to myself, "these suckers would be a heck of a lot more comfortable if they were a little more broken in."
And then, I did what every girl in America does, but does not tell you, I went into the dressing room to do the "Squat and Stretch". The famous move where you move into a squat position to stretch out the jeans, and see what they would feel like if you could actually breathe in them.

Halfway into my Squat and Stretch, the incident occurs. The $165 jeans rip down the middle of the knee. Yes, the knee. Literally torn 6 inches, from seam to seam on knee of the jeans. And me, I am left standing alone, in the dressing room, freaking out. Sweating. Panicking.

What's a girl to do? It was a tiny boutique with nobody else in the store. I had to go and tell them. There was no getting out of it. They expected me to come prancing out of the dressing room any minute in these jeans, that now looked like they'd been attacked by a bear.

I walk out, with a look of sheer terror on my face, and tell the girl that, "I was looking at the jeans and noticed that they had a small hole in the knee. When I crouched down to look at it closer, it ripped even further!"  I panicked, it seemed like the most rational thing to say at the time.

And then we proceeded to stare at one another for what seemed like 10 minutes. We just stared, not sure what to do. Am I supposed to offer to pay for them? I didn't want them in the first place! And so I just stand there, looking like I have just been through a bear attack. Which, essentially, I was.

Finally, to end the stare-down, I pick up every shirt and accessory in my dressing and say, "I'll take these". I felt so bad, I bought them all. And, knowing I had the coupon, I didn't want to have to show my face in the store again. The loony-bin who ripped the jeans in the knee.

And so, I paid, literally ran out the door, ran to my car, and called my mom screaming at the top of my lungs, in shear embarrassment of what had just occurred. Would have been hilarious if I was not alone. Less hilarious when standing in a dressing room alone. However, worst case scenario would have been if Jeremy had been with me. In which case I would have been laughing so hard, I would still be in that darn dressing room.

Things that would only happen to Kara Frank.

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