A Man Can't Even go to the Mall Safely Anymore.

Yesterday, in order to fight boredom, I decided to scout out a nearby shopping mall.
The trip fared better than I had hoped, and I walked through the colorful hallways with a small shopping bag of action figures dangling from fist.

Just around the time I had completed making the traditionally awkward pass-by of Victoria's Secret, I caught a glimpse of a girl coming towards me, offering me a sample of hand lotion.

Caught off guard, I accepted and paused my step while she squirted me a sample-size portion of lotion onto my palm. I had to stop and look at her now, since in one hand I had an offering of moisturizing lotion, and in the other my bag of man-toys. Her first clever move.

"Oh here, let me help you with that." She cooed, snatching my bag of treasures away and placing it on the kiosk next to her bottles of lotion. "Rub the lotion in."

I obliged.

"Do you know where the Dead Sea is?"

Yes.

"So you know that it's right between Israel and Jordan?"

Yes.

"...and that it's the lowest point on the entire planet?"

Yes.

"...and that the salt content of the water is 65%?"

Wow.

"I'm from Israel too. Just like these fine products."

Really?

"Here, let me show you something."

Grabbing my freshly moisturized hand, she turns her attention to my index finger. Grabbing a four-sided file, she proceeds to "get rid of the ridges on your nail. The ridges are bad." in her fine Israeli accent.

Stupid.

A few moments later, she turns the file over to another surface and continues to buff, all the while extolling the virtues of this hand spa set.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

No.

"A wife?"

No.

"A mother?"

No.

I begin to feel my lies creeping up the back of my neck.
"Well, certainly there is someone special you know might be able to use this set! Of course, we even have men coming and buying these for themselves today. Maybe you could use one."

No, I couldn't.

While she proceeded to show me mirror-finished fingernail in relationship to the nine other dull, ridged and ugly looking ones, she pulled out a cuticle oil, ("made from salts, minerals and olive oil from the Dead Sea!") and began massaging it into my finger. My masculinity is curling up in my toes.

All this while, she hadn't let go of my hand, effectively anchoring me physically and gently caressing my meaty palm. She knew her business.

"Now, you try one!" she purred.

What?

The file is pushed into my other, moisturized hand, and I begin to buff and file away the unsightly ridges on my thumbnail. I never did like those stupid ridges there.

I buff, and she asks me questions about what I'm doing here, where do I live and she laughs at everything I say.

Finally, someone who knows how funny I am!

We proceed to the next side of the file. The buffing phase.

She observes my progress closely, helping to hold my hand steady beneath the fierce pummeling my man muscles are delivering to it through the buffer.

"Let's see how it looks."

I take away the buffer to see a thumbnail with slightly glossy edges, and the entire center still dull, unfinished and full of ridges.

Undaunted, she quickly throws cuticle oil everywhere and proceeds to rub it in.

"Good job! Most guys don't get this far." she confides in me from a mere six inches from my face.

Really?

Why didn't I shave today?

She finally comes around to telling me that this manicure set, which includes the remarkable value of the buffer, cuticle oil, my choice of lotion, (cucumber melon,) emory board and some well-deserved self confidence is all for sale for $59.00

I consider the rude implications of just walking away right then. It certainly is the right thing to do. But she has spent so much of her time with me. I would hate to be considered boorish.

Sensing my reluctance (see also: deer in the headlights) she quickly lowers her tone, grabs me by the elbow and whispers that she will give me her employee discount.

"It must stay between us. I'm not supposed to give anyone else this discount."

Really? Special deal, huh?

Then a moment of reason lit up my brain. It occurred to me that I was standing in a crowded mall, surrounded by thousands of people actually considering buying a organically produced manicure set. Pretty girl or not.

She must think you're stupid, T.





Ten minutes later, I am walking through the mall carrying my new organically produced manicure set. Within twenty minutes the shrewdness of the Israeli salesgirl sinks in, and I assume an appropriate level of sheepishness, turning a bright shade of purple and carrying my head tucked between my shoulder blades.

You jedi powers are weak, old man! She walked all over you!

Well, she was touching my hand! I didn't know what to do!

Did she reach into your pocket and take out your wallet, too?!

Yeah, she might as well.

Let this be a lesson to you: If you decide to lie to a persuasive salesperson about having anyone special in your life, either 1) be an orphaned only child with severe social disorders or 2) have a mom and sisters to give the stupid thing to for Christmas.

T.