Recently my daughter received a gift from a very generous relative. Before I go on, let me clarify that this gift was from what we will call the “Citrus Fruit Store” of yoga gear, because I don’t feel like getting sued for disparaging a beloved brand name. The sizing was wrong, so we took it into the well appointed store for an exchange.
Never having set foot in one of these havens for the gullible and wealthy, I was curious. My first impression, and to my surprise, was the fact that you could actually smell privilege and smugness even in the guise of exercise clothing. Huh.
I was immediately greeted by a bored looking fat dude who was wearing an on-brand hoody – with the hood up. Literally. He was too cool for his stretchy pants, so as I moved past him toward the cashier, I kept my gaze up so as not to accidentally clap eyes on his Citrus Fruit man pants. Dudes should not wear this brand, not skinny dudes, fat dudes, yoga dudes, none of them. No junk should be forced into that trunk.
I explained to the equally bored cashier that I wanted to make an exchange. All was good, but no cash refunds. So my daughter happily took some items into the change room, because at 15 having your first pair of “whatever your Mom would never buy you” brand yoga pants is exciting.
I wandered around to see what might be on sale. Nothing. Literally, not one red tag in the place.
I looked deeper into the racks for anything I might remotely consider spending a car payment on. Still nothing.
Then I started really looking at the price tags, and after a few racks, I noticed that my mouth needed closing before my daughter came out and saw me cheaping out in the worst way. I was horrified to the point of making a scene…. but kept it in my head.
My beautiful daughter came bouncing out of the change room with her exchange item on, a pair of yoga pants with that famous big dollar logo on her backside. She chirped, “look at all the pockets!” Then seeing the expression on my face when she said these pants would come pretty close to the exchange we had on credit, she dialed her joy down a little. Like the fact that we wouldn’t have to add to the tally would somehow make spending $120 on some shitty spandex more palatable. Noticing that this tactic held no water with me, and I was still going to be grumpy about it, she reminded me that it wasn’t even my money, it was a gift from somebody who wanted her to have something special.
This is about the moment I pretty much lost it – still thankfully, only in my own head. This crap isn’t special, it is brainwashing bullshit with a great marketing department. I will give the Citrus Fruit Pants makers one bit of credit. The lycra is strategically placed to make everybody’s backside look a little better than if they wear down market elastopants. Maybe that is the reason shiny chicks and silly dudes will spend that kind of money on the equivalent of a hand towel’s worth of fabric.
My daughter, knowing me very well, intervened before I could do the exchange with ennui girl at the cash. She knew that if bored employee of the month said the wrong thing, I might unleash about this silly store and its ridiculous prices. So, being the crafty girl that she is, she pointed out the Starbucks across the way, and offered to handle the transaction herself so I could get a $5 coffee. And yes I see the irony in this statement.
The ride home saw me getting my inner grouch under control. It was quiet, but I had coffee so I kept the ranting against the establishment to a minimum.
When I got home, I did what everybody else does, I took it to social media. Not being a fan of frivolous rip offs and being known for my disdain for trendy crap, I asked my friends what they thought of Citrus Fruit Yoga wear. Of course I knew exactly who would fall on which side of the debate before I asked the question. I made a little bet with myself and earned a chocolate award for being bang on.
I have two types of friends apparently, the ones like me, who would rather stick a fork in their eye than feel like they have been scammed, and the ones who swear these works of elastic bum-art are the best quality they have ever worn. Maybe they think that somehow the magic pants will reshape their saggy asses back to their teen years of perky heaven. Maybe they believe that wearing $120 pants between showers will stop the fug of the unwashed lady bits, who knows? They are also the same people who wear copper bracelets and put amber necklaces around their teething baby’s neck. Welcome to Fantasy Island.
I have stopped openly reacting to ladies wearing the Mom uniform of the privileged, but I draw the line at the dudes showing up at my house with lycra enhanced faux packages. Nobody needs to see that shit.