Today was, somewhat unexpectedly, my designated holiday shopping day. And I am proud to say that it took me an hour flat, which may very well be a personal record. It also caused my d$/dt plot to look something like the gentle slopes of the Grand Canyon.
I love shopping, but not social shopping: bear in mind the distinction. The former is a test of intellect, desire, philosophy, and morals. The latter is an excuse to prance around and giggle mindlessly. I am happiest shopping alone – or with someone like-minded.
I once was quoted as describing the masculine shopping experience as the equivalent of a SWAT mission: you go in, armed with a vague knowledge of what has to be accomplished. You slip from shop to shop, avoiding contact so as not to be suckered into bad deals or useless baggage, instead compiling intelligence on comparative prices and products. Then, you negotiate. You debate. A proper present cannot be too specific so as to run the high risk of being useless or unappreciated, but it can also not be so general so that you do not seem to understand the person. Items that are too expensive will sacrifice the chance to buy other things; items that are too cheap are rarely of high quality and will, for all intents and purposes, just reflect a stingy heart.
You have to think simultaneously within yourself about not-yourself. You need to put yourself wholly in the shoes of someone else: the presents are not for you. The separation of the simulation of another person and your mind itself is an imperative.
All around, there are distractions. Mere noise. You close your eyes and see all black except for the small blips that are your targets. You pursue them, claim them, and you exit.
Gifts are not purchased.
They are conquered.
Part the second
Humorous epics aside, I had some amusing experiences within that short time period, which, like any period of furious computation and optimization, felt like much, much longer. I began as I always do: I ate. The dangers of shopping on a full stomach cannot be overstated – hunger of one kind leads to hunger of another kind, and ravenous, growling stomach can only mean impulsive purchasing. It is like trying to repair a broken LCD screen with a bow and a necklace or fighting a fire with a machine gun.I ordinarily eat at Thai Accent, one of my favorite fast-food places because any quick Thai joint that is willing to make its food wicked spicy has the audacity I’m looking for in a restaurant. But I am sick, and subjecting myself to a waterfall of snot would be considered a bad idea. So I did the next best thing and ate at Taco Bell.Hate on Taco Bell all you want, but they have some good shit. Eighty cents a taco! It is the fast food paradigm applied to a distant cousin of Tex-Mex, itself a distant cousin of Mexican Food. But Taco Bell doesn’t put on any facades: one look at the name “Crunchwrap Supreme” and you know you have transcended all cuisine. This is fusion food like you’ve never seen before. Think P. F. Chang’s China Bistro. Yeah, fusion.
And of course, I topped off my three-taco combo with nothing else but the Baja Blast Mountain Dew. This weird blue liquid is only offered at Taco Bell. It tastes kind of like … actually, I have no idea how to describe it. I would suppose it’s something like a Pina Colada soda, except it’s blue, except it doesn’t taste like a Pina Colada. I then asked for four Fire sauce packets.
I’ve always had a soft spot for those faux-Chipotle sauces. Nowhere else have I tasted a sauce with that unique taste – authentic restaurants cannot reproduce this tangy, spicy flavor. I got 5 sauce packets – their generosity (or failure to count) left a smile on my face. I knew exactly how many I needed, and it was four. You see, years of experience have taught me that you need two packets per taco.
Why, you wonder, did I ask for 4 and not 6? Because 2 packets is rather spicy, actually. Not Thai Accent spicy, but spicy nonetheless. So one taco has to go plain, to absorb the spice. The proper formula is 2(t-1), where t is the number of tacos I’m ordering.
I was left with one extra sauce packet. Since I was little, I collected these – I don’t think they can go bad. At least I’ve never seen one go bad, and we’ve hoarded them at home for years. To mix things up a bit, I slipped it into my left jacket pocket, which contained my wad of aloe lotion Puffs tissues. It’s like Russian roulette – you reach in and usually you’re safe and you pull out a tissue. But sometimes you pull out the fire sauce and bask your nose in jalapeno goodness. Like I said, it mixes things up a bit.
I next graced the dainty halls of Godiva, Baja Blast Mountain Dew still in hand. There were women dressed elegantly in their winter garb, store clerks in suits. I was there with Baja Blast.
I looked around and humored an over-eager-to-help worker, who showed me some items, seemingly blind to the exorbitant prices of the items he was showing me. He then got into a bizarre argument or something with a pudgier store clerk, who stated that she was a “paid professional.” A paid professional at what? She was just standing there, giving orders. It was kind of surreal – not a very supportive work environment.
I made my picks and went over to the cashier, who asked me if I was buying anything for myself. I gave her a look that conveyed my precise thoughts: “I just savored three ground beef (and possibly other mystery meat) tacos, and I am carrying Baja Blast. Do I look like the kind of person who buys Godiva chocolates for myself?”
In any case, that was that and I headed over to Borders to make a few selections. Alas, nothing interesting happened there, so I shall spare you that episode. Ditto on Finish Line. I took the shuttle home, thought about handicapped-sensitive planning and architecture, and forgot to pick up my violin. Now I am happily blogging away in an Athena cluster, violin restored, just waiting and reflecting. And craving more Baja Blast.
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