As I was preparing to leave the shop yesterday -- anxious to return at least one of the seventeen phone calls I had received from my attorneys, if only to ask why we were still talking to each other -- one of my coworkers grabbed me. She needed my help.
Working for peanuts is one thing, but working for nothing is, well, come to think of it, pretty much the same thing, so I agreed to stay for a bit. A customer, Sally (not her real name), was standing in a fitting room looking a bit bewildered. The hanging bar was overflowing with stuff for her to try on, and her own body hung limply beneath an outfit that seemed vaguely familiar. "I've been trying to recreate what you wore the other day, the day you looked so good," my coworker said. As much as she had narrowed the options -- there aren't all that many days when I look good -- I was still confused. "You know," she prodded. "When you wore this sweater and people stopped you to ask where you got it."
Ahh. The sweater. The crazy sweater that seems three sizes too big, no matter who tries it on, but is so soft and cuddly it becomes irresistible, as long as you don't focus too much on the excess material. Sally was wearing our last one, and though Sally is a bit larger than I am, her frame seemed to disappear within the nubby folds of what appeared to be a ratty old blanket with sleeves. The corners of her mouth dipped down in synch with the drooping cloth.
Like an emergency worker in fitting room triage, I sprung into action. I grabbed a colorful and sparkly scarf and a pair of boots from the floor, and put Sally in a choke hold as I draped the scarf around her neck. She stood, motionless, a patient in shock. I demanded that she remove the jeans she was wearing and allow me to bring her a pair of miracle skinnies that we could tuck into the boots. Finally, she showed the first signs I had seen of life. "No way. My legs are way too fat."
Well, if I had a dime for every time I've heard that, I'd have a handful of dimes. I chose not to dignify her statement, giving her a dismissive wave as I marched out to find the miracle jeans. My coworker grabbed me again, steering me around the other side of the wall for some privacy. She told me what she knew about Sally, which was not much, but I suppose all we needed to know at the moment. "Her husband just packed up and left her last week."
Ahh. The cad. No wonder Sally looked as if she was about to disappear. I went and grabbed the jeans, and tossed them over the fitting room door. We waited outside, our little triage team of two, holding our breath. The door opened slowly. The jeans were on, the boots were on. Suddenly the sweater looked very recognizable, just like the one I had fallen in love with weeks earlier.
Sally looked tentative, still surprised, I think, that the jeans fit and the boots fit over them and that, objectively speaking, her legs did not appear to be fat. Our collective gasp gave her the courage to come out and look at herself in the three way mirror. She broke into a huge grin; her face out-sparkled the scarf. I noticed, for the first time, how pretty she was. I am certain it had been a long time since she had noticed that.
I left Sally in the very capable hands of my coworker, and I am willing to bet Sally left a while later with armloads of shopping bags filled with outfits that made her smile. The road ahead will be tough for Sally, no matter what she is wearing. And, if my experience is any indication, there will be many days when she barely has the energy to put on anything more than a frown. I called my attorneys back, telling them for the umpteenth time that though I love them dearly, I want them out of my life. As usual, they didn't take me seriously, and I did the iPhone equivalent of slamming the phone down (very unsatisfying).
I hope, for Sally's sake, that her relationship with matrimonial lawyers will come to an end as swiftly and abruptly as her marriage did. And I hope she remembers, as time goes on, that just because her husband walked out on her she is not invisible, and she should not disappear. And that her legs are not fat, and even if they were, who cares? We all know -- or should know -- it's not about the clothes, it's not about the size of our thighs. It's about the smile. And if it takes an occasional trip to the mall to draw that out, what's so bad about that?
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