Confessions of a Bargin Hunter

Oh the joys of a sale! There is nothing that makes me happier than the sight of red tags and discount signs. I love the rush of scouring through racks and racks of clothing while simultaneously utilizing my knowledge of algebra (who knew those percent problems would be useful past the seventh grade?!). It’s that feeling of beating the “Man” at his own game that warms my heart. Just the idea of finding eight-dollar jeans and five-dollar sweaters makes all the lines and chaos seem worth it. However, my love for bargain hunting was tested this past week when I braved the cold and made my way down State Street to Urban Outfitters.

For those of you who were unaware of last week’s proceedings, Urban Outfitters had a season ending sale where sale items were an additional 50% and on Friday, regularly priced items were 10% off (with a valid student ID). As one can imagine, there was quite a buzz on campus. Every recessionista/recessionistor (the gender variations of this noun are still up for debate… as is the spelling) made their pilgrimage to their holy land in hopes of getting their hands on the latest in homeless chic.

As I neared the store I prepared myself mentally and physically for what I was about to endure. I quickly made sure my credit card and cell phone were easily accessible in the event of a shopping catastrophe. Clutching my bag close to my body I swiftly moved through the endless lines and clusters of people. I eventually made my way to the sale section, which was painfully bare. As I scanned the hangers that were still holding clothes, I noticed a gorgeous orange and blue racer back tank hanging in the corner. I rushed over as quickly as I could and snatched it up. I excitedly checked the price tag ($10!) and then the size. To my utter dismay it was a large, but I tried to convince myself that it would be perfect for the days on which I was bloated/housing a burger from Wendy’s. But alas, I couldn’t help but notice that most everyone who was waiting in line with me had the same tank top as I did. Did they have my size in their possession? It didn’t matter. After spending a few minutes in the dressing room grabbing at excess cloth in various places, I couldn’t keep convincing myself. The top didn’t fit. I had failed.

I left the dressing room empty handed and began walking towards the exit sign when the shopping gods above decided to give little ol’ me another chance. Awkwardly hanging behind a support beam was a collection of orange and blew racer back tank tops in seemingly different sizes. Hallelujah! I deftly squeezed myself between a fellow shopper, the support beam, and the rack in hopes of picking up my one true desire. However, I couldn’t reach the shirt- the other girl was deliberately standing in front of what was rightfully mine. As an avid shopper I used my previous shopping experience to wiggle my way to success. I began inching closer and closer towards her, all the while trying to be polite and excusing myself of my clothing inspired craziness. She didn’t budge. I then had to just go for it and make my move. As I reached over her to grab the top, she immediately intercepted my hand with her overgrown nail, scratched me, and proceeded to snatch the shirt away. “Sorry,” she said as she placed the top on a pile of other clothes and walked away. What a bitch. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. As I walked out of the store I was no longer consumed by the thrill of shopping, but by the large mark on my skin. The lines and chaos were no longer worth it.