I was in an Antique shop the other day with Adrian, which as far as Antique shops go was a really lovely hodgepodge of just the right amount of actual antiques, vintage clothes, old woodworking tools and really ugly dishes in the shape of ducks to send these two cowboy-girls into spasms of happiness.
I collapsed into a big overstuffed sofa that was sitting there because my feet hurt like a really bad word and Adrian has the capacity to shop me into the ground until I become a small, whiny child and cry for some nourishment and a stout cup of tea. Brat.
Anyway, I was sitting there letting the blood return to my feet and daydreaming about lunch when an older gentleman came up to me and started talking. I kind of thought that he actually owned the booth whose couch I was sitting in because he wanted to know about the jacket I was holding and the treasures of A’s that I was guarding beside me. Turns out he didn’t and was just another footsore shopper and I honestly think this man thought he was being really funny, but for almost 15 minutes he stood there and was, well truthfully...he was kind of nasty. (In a mean sort of way, not inappropriate nasty.) He started off by insulting his wife, then me and then quickly moved on to calling an 8 months pregnant lady in the shop the bearer of a monkey. Charming fellow, right? And I had to laugh because if I had meet him just a short week ago when I was really struggling with feeling hurt and angry at pretty much the whole world, it’s entirely possible I would have flown at him like a spider monkey, screaming intelligible insults, and not felt sorry in the least. But thankfully, in part because of talking with some of you and some wise, wise friends I have, I was able to laugh him off.
I can look alarmingly like a 12 year old and sometimes it shocks me the manner in which adults talk to people they think are children. I was always surrounded by adults as a kid who took the time to look me in the eye and talked to me like an equal, thereby helping me to grow up a little. It wasn’t until the end of our “conversation” that the man (he was wearing a belt buckle with the name Bruce on it, but he very well could have bought it at another antique shop and his name could be Fred. But for the sake of staying organized and trying NOT to keep rambling as I’m wont to do, let’s just call him Bruce for crying out loud. Ok? Ok, glad we had this talk…), that Bruce asked how old I actually was. He acted a little bit nicer, but not much. The funny part was Adrian, who was really steamed by some of his slights and she would dart in and out of the picture when she got too angry. Most of the time she would stand a little bit behind him and make funny faces, which was difficult for me because those sorts of things have a tendency to make us erupt into what we refer to as “church giggles”. Church giggles are definitely frowned upon and have a tendency to last up to 10 minutes and generally pop up at inopportune moments.
I don’t really know what the point of this blog post is…it doesn’t have a moral or some cheery advice on how to handle people who act nasty to you in antique shops. But before you embark on your weekend adventure, I hope you get a giggle out of our nonsensical actions and my rambling, pointless recountings.
xo xo Liz
PS. To all you ladies (and gents) hunting this weekend out there, I hope you get a big one! :)