Ms Picky
Me and my big mouth. Last month, between sobriety and insanity, I gave a word to my little sister to buy her a pair of shoes. After weeks of lame excuses just to keep me away from keeping my promise, finally I had a heart of a good big brother and took her to a mall. Once I thought of lending my card with her, think again, maybe NOT. She might not have the wisdom to use the card properly.
We came into a store. Within five minutes, I bought myself two formal shirts. OK, today's pop quiz: who needs a psychiatrist's treatment for buying things compulsively?
In my defense, I might need that. It's true that one day I went to office wearing a formal worker shirt and my boss scolded me for not looking casual like him. But the next day, I was in my casual t-shirt and denims, a neighbor mistook me for a university student.
If you cannot manage to love one pair of shoes here, probably it's not the store. It's you!, I mumbled. It took her forever to decide. Well, almost. As I walked toward her to say Game over. Let get outta here!, she finally turned around and said, "This is it. It's the one." I was about to give my judgement but, knowing that it would prolong my pain waiting for another century to come in this store, I refrained. "Yes, that's definitely you." Where's the cashier? Can we go home now?
We came into a store. Within five minutes, I bought myself two formal shirts. OK, today's pop quiz: who needs a psychiatrist's treatment for buying things compulsively?
In my defense, I might need that. It's true that one day I went to office wearing a formal worker shirt and my boss scolded me for not looking casual like him. But the next day, I was in my casual t-shirt and denims, a neighbor mistook me for a university student.
But what is a perfect pair of shoes to her?
After wandering in bewilderment in that spacious store, my sister dragged me to women shoes corner. I couldn't believe the way she tired her legs out by browsing each shelves, looking for a perfect pair. But what is a perfect pair of shoes to her? I almost screamed my heart out listening to her: These ones were too bright, those have too high heels, those were too girlie, those were too bitchy, and those pair - oh yeah - were of same color of a pair she'd already had. I keep asking, "Get real. Of these millions of shoes, you cannot pick one - just one - pair?" "I know it's the one the moment I spot one," she replied as her eyes explored the display. Now I do have a great respect to shop attendants.
If you cannot manage to love one pair of shoes here, probably it's not the store. It's you!, I mumbled. It took her forever to decide. Well, almost. As I walked toward her to say Game over. Let get outta here!, she finally turned around and said, "This is it. It's the one." I was about to give my judgement but, knowing that it would prolong my pain waiting for another century to come in this store, I refrained. "Yes, that's definitely you." Where's the cashier? Can we go home now?
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