National Treasure

I could barely sleep on Friday night, due to the excitement and anticipation of Saturday's $7 Kids' Jeans Sale at Old Navy. My husband vetoed my first two proposals: 1) that we camp out in the parking lot the night before and 2) that we leave the kids' soccer game a half hour early to be at the store when it opened.

I paid dearly for my poor choices. By the time I made it to Old Navy (an hour after opening), all of the jeans in the store were piled into a mound the size of King Tut's pyramid in the middle of the store. Completely covering this eighth Wonder of the World was a swarm of treasure hunters wearing bicycle shorts, ball caps, and their husbands' t-shirts. The store employees--all of whom will be returning to college this week--were standing around the perimeter of the excavation site, mouths agape in fascination and horror.

"Do you have any girls' flare leg jeans, size 6?" I asked a teenage worker named Misty.
Misty was a lot smarter than she looked. Without taking her eyes off the treasure hunters, she decided that she would rather forgo her summer bonus than risk becoming a human sacrifice.
"Um, I seriously doubt it," she told me as she walked away.

Forced to fend for myself, I walked slowly around the perimeter of the mound and tried to find the safest point of entry. I said a little prayer to myself before I closed my eyes and jumped in. What I found once inside was terribly disappointing. Instead of the five-pocket treasures advertised in the circular that I received in the mail, all I found was a heap of bleached denim and black skinny jeans.

Since any treasure is better than no treasure, I snatched whatever I could get my hands on and followed the other treasure hunters up to the cashier. As I heaved my merchandise onto the counter, a young man named Greg, who weighed approximately 50 pounds less than me, told me that I was only allowed to purchase 3 pairs of jeans at the sale price. This was bad news since I had 9 pairs of jeans.
"But I'm pregnant," I told him.
Greg failed to see how this information was relevant.
Realizing that appealing to reason and rationality was going to get me nowhere, I resorted to another strategy to get what I wanted. Specifically, I stared into Greg's eyes until his level of discomfort reached the point where he was able to come up with the idea that he could ring up my jeans in three separate purchases.

"Come look what I got!" I shouted when I returned home. With that level of enthusiasm, my family expected a puppy or at least a Cherry Slurpee.
"These are jeans?" my husband asked, holding up a pair of the skinnies.
"That's all they had!" I said defensively.
"They're not even the right sizes," he pointed out. Carried away by the thrill of the hunt, I seemed to have overlooked the small detail of sizing, resulting in the purchase of two pairs of girls' size 10 jeans, one size 8, and a 7 slim.
"If I didn't buy them, someone else would have!" I cried.

My husband failed to see why this was a problem. Rather than explain to him how a rational mind works, I left him alone in his ignorance. As I marched out of the room, I couldn't help but wonder what my family would do without a fount of reason such as myself in their midst.

They wouldn't have 9 pairs of skinny jeans in an assortment of sizes, that's for sure.