Blunder # 3: Nelson’s mask comes off

Podiatry boasts a “generous” discount for its employees.  If we desire a full-priced item of clothing, we pay a mere 60% of the full price.  If we desire a home item, we pay 75% of the price.  Anything on sale, however, is available to us at the price listed on the tag.  But every once in awhile, when employees are least expecting it, the company announces, via email, surprise periods of time during which ALL goods are 40% off to its employees.  These periods are called (for the purposes of this blog) THE AGE OF PODIATRY.  

Being excellent times to actually purchase some quality things for somewhat reasonable prices, all employees look forward to THE AGE OF PODIATRY.  We whisper excitedly and semi-constantly about when the next AGE may be.  “Haven’t had an AGE in awhile, you think it’s coming?”  “I heard we’d have an AGE after this next markdown.  I sure hope so.”  “I’m waiting for an AGE until I buy that vase.”

A few weeks ago, we got the messiah of all emails: “Announcing THE AGE OF PODIATRY now through Sunday!”  It had, indeed, come immediately after a payday; they get you right when you’ve got cash in the coffers.  Having only purchased a few candles throughout my time as an employee and anticipating the overwhelming number of August birthdays I have marked on my calendar (3 family members, 4 good friends), I suddenly decided that it was time to break down and truly give in to THE AGE OF PODIATRY.

I meant to do my shopping immediately after a shift when I was still in costume and makeup, but once my time to clock out came round, all I could think of was getting out of there.  The days left in the AGE were dwindling, and I had yet to do my massive bout of shopping.  As I scrubbed the bathtub while a pot of mustard greens were steaming on the stove (I was cleaning the house and making dinner for a pair of friends coming to stay the night), I realized with horror that if I did not stop what I was doing and dash immediately to Podiatry, I’d miss my window of savings.

But what about Nelson?  If I went then and there, it’d be ME going into Podiatry, NOT Nelson.  I needed an hour at least to get into character, and what with the dinner to prepare and the catbox left to clean, I didn’t have that kind of time to spend on my facade.  The choice was clear: get in and get out as quickly as possible.

As I drove over to Podiatry, I began to realize fully just what a grand mistake this was.  I’d chosen the entirely WRONG moment to be caught without a disguise.  The miserly side of me refuses to let our thermostat go below 78 even on the hottest of days; thus I was particularly sweaty and red-faced from a day of cleaning at that moment.  My outfit of choice: oversized, burlap-resembling shorts and a faded racerback tee that I claimed after finding in a dryer somewhere.  Oh, and a sports bra.  I smelled like bleach-cleaner and sweat.  My legs were unshaven.  My hair looked like a mushroom cloud around my head.  

It was in this state that I rushed madly into the store, carrying my own bag and shoveling things in it left and right.  I ran into Tiny Tim first.  He gave me not just a once over, but a twice and three-times-over, his head literally moving from the top of my body to my shoes three times in order to fully take in the horror he was witnessing.  “Yeah, heh, I know, I’m uh...still cleaning my house! Haha!  But I ran over here in the middle of chores because I just, you know need some...” I looked at what I was clutching in my hands--dish towels for my mother-in-law-- “dishtowels with birds on them!  Haha!”  He smiled an odd smile and pranced away on his chopstick legs.  

I dashed from fixture to fixture, hiding behind towers of candles or racks of long dresses to conceal myself yet could not seem to escape coming across other coworkers as the floor was crawling with them on what seemed to be a busy sales day:  Zebulon, Mama Skaggs, and of course Moonblood who I’ve come to dread as of late.  (Moonblood’s one of those who literally ends every shift with a clothing purchase, wearing only the latest fashions displayed in the store...never seen her repeat an outfit...and how can she afford all of these luxuries?...living at home and spending all of her Podiatry earnings on body-coverings, not on rent or food.)  Moonblood had just returned from a 2 week family vacay to various European countries.  “Oh wow, I guess I haven’t seen you in about 3 weeks then,” she said in reaction to me as she rung up my pile of purchases, giving me the thrice-over as did Tiny Tim.  When not regarding with curiosity the things I was buying, her slit-like eyes were burning into my body, deconstructing the mess she observed before her and trying to connect me with Nelson.  

My things unnecessarily wrapped up in the signature Podiatry tissue paper and thin packing tape, I headed for the door, weaving in and out of the various fixtures obstructing my quick exit, turning a last time to see my colleagues puzzled faces turned in my direction.  

The ruse was up.  

Nelson's final bow

Here I sit on the couch, out of breath after a frantic on-foot trip to Walgreens where I went--slightly tipsy--in order to attend to an emergency: the cats were hungry and we’d already served them the last scoop of dried pellets to be found in the bag.  I had just consumed a single Paulaner hefeweizen and one third of a glass of 2 week old cabernet sauvignon (to be fair, I thought it was fresh).  As I jetted out of the house in the direction of the little store, I realized in the light of the evening sun that my dark brown cotton dress was covered in short, white animal hairs.  "Great,” I muttered to myself, “this’ll just add to my prowess...bloodshot eyes, ashy, chlorine-coated skin, stiff, unkempt hair; I’m gonna turn some heads in there.”  After an afternoon at the mini water-park with a four year old, I was left suffering from a stubbed toe, a mild case of housewife’s knee, and the beginnings of pinkeye.  Limping a bit from my pool injuries and swaying slightly to and fro from the influence of one unit alcohol taken on a relatively empty stomach, I was pleased to find few people in Walgreens and hastily conducted the transaction.    

But I’m home now.  My weekend babysitting gig is through, the cats are satiated, and I’ve just discovered a fresh bottle of merlot.    

This is my life: living in a sports bra and cotton tees from one errand to the next, having fun cooking with my man friend, then worrying about how long I can leave the dishes in the sink before they start attracting fruit flies.  When I’m me and not Nelson, I don’t worry about ruching or empire waists or “back interest” and nerdy chicness.  And now I can be me all the time.  Let the celebrating begin!  

My run as Nelson came to an end at noon yesterday.  As the curtain fell for the last time, I slipped out backstage, opting not to take an elaborate series of final bows preferring to make a quiet exit.  An arduous child-wrangling afternoon ahead of me, I needed to avoid a long chorus of cutesy goodbyes from my coworkers.  So I drove away from Podiatry for the last time like it was any other day.

I’ll reflect on the experience in this space as opposed to trying to process it while still in the store, surrounded by things that I felt a serious urge to buy and by people who, while nice, I never felt at home with.  In the end, my time at Podiatry was a lot different than I expected, and I learned a lot.  After explaining blunder number 3, the blunder that heralded the end of Nelson’s career, I will begin to pick apart the Podiatry world, examining its constituent parts, and making conclusions about this wacky world in which we live.