I went to Walmart yesterday because I had a gift card and needed some milk. While there I was affirmed in my heretofore avoidance of said store.
I was in the fitting room trying on an adorable $7 dress. It was purple with a very short, tutu-esque, black tulle skirt, part of Miley Cyrus’ line. After much deliberation I decided, defeated, that I’m too old to dress like a 16-year-old. (Sniff.)
Rewind to pre-deliberation, in the fitting room: I heard an employee talking—no, shouting—to another employee about how constipated she had been all day. And how her “booty hole” was “sore because [she] had to stick [her] fingernail…” I didn’t hear the end of the sentence because her coworker told her to stop it and act like a lady. “I am a lady,” she said.
This is not a joke.
Then at checkout, the young female cashier had a very visible five-o’clock shadow spread under her ample chins. She called a manager to help her with my gift card. The manager, a much older lady with long stringy gray hair, had a long gray mustache to match.
Am I shallow to have been mildly traumatized by this experience?
