"How many do you have?" the my-age, appropriately "thick" Avenue salesclerk inquired as I strode toward the precious dressing room, bundle of possible vestments held close to my bosom. Sure, it was late and the store was quiet and they were doing their closing activities, but they didn't actually close for an hour.
"Six," I replied.
"The limit is four," she said. ("Hmph. Industry standard is six. Y'all can't count higher than that?" I thought to myself.) I tried to just put 2 on the back of the door so I could swap them and not go looking for her again. She seized them away and put them on an unrelated rack an inconvenient distance away.
I finished the trying ons, the selectings and rejectings, and had to go hunt her down again to find where the other two garments were. She was none too eager or swift to assist me.
In the passing between however, a bait and switch occurred. She gave me the two shirts I still needed to try on, taking three rejected items as I took the three items I wanted back into the dressing room with me. I closed the door, looked down at the clothings clutched in my hand, and did a little jiggling dance while mouthing in the mirror, "That's five! I got five in here!"
Why tiny victories such as these make me joyous I don't know.
"It's all mixed up." -- Ocasek, et al.