the Wal-Marts

While shopping for a few items at the Wal-Marts, I jutted through the apparel section, the quickest route from point A (skin care products) to point B (cereal).

I don't want to get into the morality of Wal-Mart. You won't find those opinions here. But I do have one problem with the chain, and that's its speed of service. Why is it that when I walk into the Wal-Marts needing milk and toilet paper, I inevitably leave with ketchup, mustard, Christmas cards and the newest Miley Cyrus DVD? It took me a hour and now I have to wash my bum with newspaper.

Anyways.

Mid-jut, I passed a middle-aged man with gray hair and a beard. The man was rummaging through a stack of Wranglers and speaking like a sailor drinking an ocean of whiskey.

"I can't never find jeans that fit," he said, seeking condolences from the nearest living soul, be that a young lady or a talking Halloween decoration.

Nevertheless, I sympathized. I grew up in department store dressing rooms.

My jeans were always too long in the leg, too narrow in the thigh or too wide in the waist. So I tried every pair. Every pair of Levi's, Bongo and Mudd. Every Saturday. Until I memorized the markings on the wall and knew all the Kohl's associates by name.

"I know how you feel," I said, apologetically and pausing for a smile.

"Yeah," he said. "And they're never tight enough. These kids with their..."

I'm not sure what he said after that. I was too busy running.