First I headed to the returns counter.  I had grabbed a last minute pair of knit pants that looked really comfy and really long – long enough for these lanky lower limbs, comfy enough for lounging around the house.

I tried them on as soon as I got home.  Yikes, lounging around the house is ALL I’ve been doing all summer.  So no.

Knit, like spandex, is a privilege, not a right,  I’ve lost the privilege.

I removed the pants from their bag and handed them to the smiling, sunny cashier.

“You didn’t like them?”

“Oh, I liked them, I liked them a lot, I just didn’t like them on me.”

She laughed, completed the return and bid me a great day.

From there I headed to hosiery for some charcoal tights.  I spotted just the right color, and made in the USA, too.  Size 1, size 1, size 1….  squeeze around the very large tub blocking the aisle … size 1, size 1, size 1. Size 1 is for people 5″6 and below, not for me.  No matter how many times I tug at a size 1, no matter how thoroughly I stretch them upward, the crotch still hangs down to just above my knees.  No one needs that kind of uncomfortable grief all day.

Dang it, those would have been perfect, too.

Just then a very tall, very large, very, very tall and large female employee approached the very large tub and slid it aside.

“Are you about to refill the racks?”

“I’m not about to refill anything,” she snorted.

I mean she SNORTED like a very large, very angry bull about to charge.

“Shoot,” I said, touching the top of the merchandise-filled tub, “I was hoping there was some size 2 gray tights in here.”

She growled.  Her face contorted from bull to bear – a very tall, very large, very grizzly bear.

Whoa!  What did I do? Maybe she just hates all middle-aged white women.  Maybe she’s had all she can take of the high-maintenance middle-aged white women in my town.  The kind who would just open the bin and rummage through it themselves – or demand that she do it.  But I’m not one of them.  I’m courteous.  And, wait, we’re not in my town, so no excuse.

I wanted to say, “So your manager is okay with you treating customers like this?” But the look in her eye warned me not to poke that bear.

So I pretended she hadn’t just sprayed bull snot all over me, shrugged and said, “Dang it, those tights would have been perfect.”

I snagged a pair of SmartWools for a really good price and headed toward housewares.  As I was walking away I heard her voice and turned around.  “There are more tights up front,”  she said, speaking with her back to me, refilling the racks.

“Oh, good, thanks.”

The Holy Spirit must have whispered something to her.

I added an item from housewares to the knee socks in my cart, tried on a really cute skirt and added that to the cart and found a pair of size 2 gray tights, made in the USA, color not as perfect as the ones in hosiery, up by the check out line.

I was called up to cashier #4, the same cheerful woman who had taken my return.  We chatted pleasantly while she rang me up, then she bid me another great day.

“Thank you for being so pleasant and friendly,” I said with a smile, “there aren’t a lot of friendly people these days.”

The cashier next to her nodded and said, “You’re right.”

Day and night and back to day again.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Night and Day.”