Garoo

Usually, when I get a chance to walk around Boulevard Haussman, I always get into nostalgia mode. Which I like to wallow in. I wrote about it not long ago, by the way, since I had seen the Christmas displays there.

When I was in high school, I spent my lunch breaks at the Printemps (yeah, I was already quite the social guy), so I get a bit of a madeleine (de Proust) everytime I go back there. Even though the store changes more than a madeleine recipe (and, today, I found the layout to feel quite empty—too much space, not enough products, looks like it’s the way things to in department stores these days), the structure remains the same. I know the escalators personally (even the weird green of the, uh, ramps? hasn’t changed for ten years), the stuff displayed is always chic and pretty, well, it’s a pleasant place to go shopping. Not that I’d buy anything there, because I can’t afford that.

So, usually, as I said, nostalgia mode. Which is pleasant. But, in the end, today’s shopping session left me more depressed than anything. Let’s not mention the fact that I still haven’t found the bag I’m looking for (does it really exist? it’s not that important, I know that, if I find it, it will be too expensive for me anyway). Thats not the problem.

First, I am left without any cash in my wallet (and my Christmas bank check hasn’t been credited yet). Seventy-five euros vanishing all at once, and I only have one new pair of jeans (that was the emergency, I’ve got only two wearable pairs of trousers; both are too tight, one is worn out and the other is torn torn between the legs and sewn back with… superglue). No, I haven’t spent 75 € for a pair of jeans, I’m not that crazy, I’m poor: I only bought a bunch of stuff I didn’t need, like you always do. Cheap necklace, cheap ring, cheap key ring, I didn’t need any of these but they were cute and the price, in euros, looked tiny. Five euros sound so much cheaper than thirty francs. But it all adds up. Plus a ten euro watch, but that one was needed, to replace the unwearable digital Swatch I bought a couple years ago (even though, for ten euros, I’m not too optimistic about this one’s life span). Wasting money, now that’s cool. Save Karyn! Uh, nevermind.

But there’s more important than money. Because money is not happiness. Right. Whatever. The thing is I’ve been insulted, offended in the worst possible way. By a store. By a franchise. Silly me, I’ve wanted to try on pants at H&M, because they’re cheap and nice. Oh, what a mistake. A deadly one. Note for future reference: H&M only makes and sells clothes for anorexic [pretty] people. Honest. When I finally found pants that I could button up (and I’m far from obese, I promise, really), it was two meters tall (and yet I’m tall, too). So what, are they trying to say that I’ve got Michael Jordan’s waist size? Oh I know I’m getting myself a reputation as a fat, lazy man. I shouldn’t even save the post. Well, I don’t care because I’m not single (ta-da!), but I do care because I’m a histrionic narcissistic paranoid megalomaniac. And I’ve only got a couple of kilos to lose. It’s just that I don’t sniff coke, I don’t throw up after I’ve eaten my brocoli (well, no, of course I don’t eat brocoli), and my thighs are too muscular to fit in trousers my size (yes, I’ve got muscular thighs and fuck off, I’m not here to prove it to you, and I’m not here to lie either, what would be the point of that?). Anyway, I’m not worthy of H&M. I’m beginning to understand why their clothes are nice and cheap: by making them available only to fashionable shrimps, you get advertised in the trendiest clubs, for free. Nice business plan, but doesn’t help me. C&A jeans are not as nice. And the ones I’ve finally bought are just a bit… shorter than I wanted. True that multiplying sizes and heights, when you sell pants, poses an inventory problem, and a choice problem for the customer. But then, I definitely and absolutely wanted new pants right now, today, so I bought them. I bet they’re gonna end up to be ugly and fragile and lousy and crap. Wouldn’t they?