One Holiday Job I'd Have to Pass On...

There are all kinds of holiday deals available these days, but for some, cheap, cheaper and cheapest are still not good enough. And if you can't beg or borrow, stealing is always a viable option. Years ago, my cousin did the old "underwear switching" scheme at the mall that girls used to do in high school: You know, you try on undergarments in the fitting room and you put on theirs and walk out and leave your ratty ones in the store. Of course I can't blame "peer pressure" in my cousin's case since she was forty-two at the time. She got busted too. Oh, please. Even I know all those stores have women sitting on the other side of the fitting room mirrors or up in some back room watching you. I usually wave to them when I first enter the fitting room and before I leave. It's interesting. I'm disgusted at guys who put cameras in places so they can watch women undressing, but feel sorry for women who get paid to do it. I'm always thinking: I try on things in dressing rooms and sometimes I'm so appalled just looking at myself in the mirror, I want to shriek in terror. Who knows what unspeakable horrors she's witnessed during the course of her career?

I would think "fitting room security" would be ranked way up there on the "professions with the highest suicide rate" list. Looking all day at the unwashed and unshaven. All of those body parts flailing around and wrestling with clothing that they have no business getting acquainted with. Boobs over here, thrown over there. Front fat becoming back fat. Back fat becoming side boob blob. Size 14 thighs  torturing size 8 jeans. Size 8 thighs torturing size 4 jeans. Zippers east and west with the Amazon of blubber flowing out in between. I'm sure nothing would be more attractive to any woman... gay, straight...any woman... than looking at me looking like I shoved an over-yeasted bread dough in my pants and now it was rising... everywhere. Over the top of the front, the top of the back, through the button hole: A moment ago, on the hanger, the button hole was wrapped contently around its friend, the button. Now they're estranged: A traumatizing day trip away from each other... I'm baking a healthy, happy, loaf in there to be sure.

You'd think the dressing room attendants would be team players and run interference.

"I'm sorry, Honey. Security has requested you not try that on."

Not that there are dressing room attendants anymore. Remember those people who gave you a number so they knew that you'd brought out the same items you'd brought in instead of wearing them home under your own clothes?

I could never do that security job. Especially if I wasn't well out of the customer's earshot. I would have to comment. I would absolutely have to. Sometimes to myself...: "Why does she think that's a good style for her? This is doomed from the start. What did I expect? Look what she came in wearing. Ugh... I knew I should've called in sick today."

And then, of course, sometimes I'd have to them... from my side of the camera: "That's just offensive. Take it off! Take it off now! Never mind who said that! It's the voice of good taste. Take it off now!!"

"This is your conscience speaking. You're not twenty and you're not Demi Moore. Do not... I repeat...Do not try that one on!"

"Ugh, I know you're stealing that bra. Throw some clothes over it and just get out of here. I just can't relive this in court. Please just get dressed. Faster... Faster."

Maybe that's the way to cure perverts. Let's try some therapy. Let's see what happens when he doesn't get to pick whom he watches or what he gets to see. "Okay, you skank. You want to watch women undress? Here you go. Sit right there and don't look away. No no. I said: 'Don't look away.'  What's the matter? I thought you loved to see women in their underwear. Well, here's your chance. We'll be back next week...after the Black Friday sales, the Door Buster sales and the BOGO sales are over."