anomalisa

Last night while driving home, I discovered a Frederick's in my neighborhood. Eureka! I've been needing new stockings, so I made my way into the store and did some shopping. It was rather empty in the store, which surprised me considering the upcoming holiday. Not that I'm complaining.

Tonight I revisited the same Frederick's to make a return. Call it buyer's remorse. I caught the sales ladies at the end of their shift and I could tell they wanted out of there. The young sales lady mechanically punched in my return, not taking a moment for small talk or even an upward glance. The other sales ladies where shuffling bras and panties into the "large," "medium," and "small" bins. The only other shopper, a young mother with a baby stroller, was trying to appease her crying child. Watching over us was an ungroomed female guard standing to my left, staring off into the abyss.

At the end of the transaction I was handed a receipt and I made my way back to my car parked on Hollywood Blvd. It was a chilly evening tonight so I made no hesitation. After plomping into the car I threw my receipt onto the passenger's side, but reconsidered and glanced at my receipt to make sure I was refunded the correct amount. Nope, no errors were revealed. So I started my car and pulled out of the metered parking spot. Then it donned on me: "I was at 'Frederick's of Hollywood' in actual Hollywood." Why then does this experience seem so artificial to me instead of genuine? Shouldn't I have felt like I visited Disneyland after years of cheap imitation carnival rides or Italy after a stay at the Bellagio in Vegas? Instead I felt like I visited Target's lingerie section after buying dish towels. Hmph.

What I discovered tonight is Frederick's of Hollywood in actual Hollywood, on Hollywood Blvd., is empty and lifeless. My boner for Frederick's is now totally gone. My grandma's Reader's Digest is more thrilling.