Lately, I’ve been hearing so much talk of yoga clothes at the studios I work at. Personally, I find the focus on the clothes to be a distraction from what yoga is actually about. I know they are cute and fun, but in my opinion, worrying about what you are wearing is the opposite of the point of yoga.
Relax with your justification of the need to wear your masks. You do you. I”ll do me.
Yet as a yoga teacher, I do need lots of work out clothes. We are talking a whole dresser draw devoted to spandex. So when I need to buy discount workout clothes, you know I’m heading to Marshalls.
Oh Marshalls, how I love you. Yes, it’s kinda like shopping in your best friends closet. You gotta dig and you can’t know what you will find.
The other day, I needed to take some photos for my speaker bio picture. A lot of my yoga clothes looked like they needed to be retired into car wash rags.
So off to I go to Marshalls, my old friend.
I gather 85 tanks tops and five pairs of shorts and head to the dressing room.
I’m greeted by, let’s call her Dolores.
I head into the very first changing room and begin my quest.
Yes. No. Hell no. Maybe. No. No. Yes. Undecided. Ahh. I’m stuck. Phew. No. Yes. Eh. No.
All the sudden, in the middle of my judge my body-athon, I stop and feel a quick pain. I lift up my heel and freeze.
I am not wearing shoes.
I had to take mine off to try on the spandex.
I look at my heel and I’m stunned.
I see this round white circle directly on my heel and as I begin to process this sight, the pain shows up.
I have stepped directly onto an open, face up, security tag/pin.
I sit down on the bench. Hold my breath and pull it out.
I gaze at the size of this mother trucker in disbelief that it just came out of my foot. The momentary pause is interrupted, because my heel now begins to squirt blood EVERYWHERE.
I try and block the blood flow and apply pressure. This mostly just gets me blood all over my hands and running down my shins.
“Excuse me” I shout from the changing room. “Hello? I need some help.” “Hello.. Hello..”
Now let’s call a spade a spade, I am loud. Someone could hear me. Yet, here I am floating away in my own blood river. Dolores, no where to be found.
So I get up and I start hoping out like Screech doing “the sprain” on Saved by the Bell.
Now I am getting blood all over the hall and the front of the dressing room.
“Excuse me” I shout in my authoritative Mom voice. “I am bleeding. I need your help. Do you have any paper towels?”
Dolores needs a moment to register what she is looking at right now.
“Hello. Paper towels, bandaid, something.”
“Oh yes, ummm..let me look around.”
She hands me those brown paper towels that schools and companies buy to save money. It’s like absorbing a spill with tree bark.
I take her arms length of brown paper towels and hop back to the dressing room. At this point, considering their overall lack of help, I am no longer worried about bleeding everywhere.
The hall and the dressing room now look like the first ten minutes of saving Private Ryan.
I sit back on my dressing room bench and start to take slow deep breaths.
“Everything is figureoutable.” I repeat to myself in a low voice.
I hear the manager out in the hallway directing people away from my blood. “Sorry, everything fine. Just please step around.”
I lay my back against the wall and close my eyes. Everything is supposed to happen right? Where’s the lesson? Is it how to handle anything? Be calm.. Be calm..
I listen to this guy direct people around my body fluids like a traffic cop but he never comes to talk to me.
My inner thought monologue is interrupted by Dolores popping into the doorway. She’s winded. I appreciate the hustle. It did take her 15 minutes to find a bandaid, but I felt her intentions were good. She’s not moving like she’s 70 anymore.
Two regular sized bandaids and a packet of antibiotic.
Well, alright then.
Dolores says the manager will want to talk to me, he has to fill out an accident report. I say I would like to talk to him as well.
I ask Dolores if there is a bathroom in which I can clean myself up. I hop there.
In the bathroom I look in the mirror and once again wonder if my life is the Truman Show. Am I being secretly video taped?
I have to teach kids yoga every day this week and I have to run an obstacle course for my 6 year olds birthday tommorrow. AKA I don’t have time for this shit.
I wash the blood off my hands and legs, point at myself in the mirror, and say out loud, “You are resilient as fuck.”
Then I head back to the scene of the crime.
Dolores sees me coming, she’s nervous.
I try to make Dolores more comfortable. Ah, not now Britt. Put your big empath heart away.
It is not your job to make everyone else feel comfortable. You have retired from that job title.
I ask if the manager is around. She says he was here, but he left, let me find him.
I sat on the bench for 15 mins waiting for this guy to come talk to me. Ummm.. at the risk of sounding entitled, who is more important than the girl who just injured herself at your store, on your merchandise, that was just laying face up in the dressing room?
I pondered the irony of Marshall’s slogan being, “Never Boring. Always Surprising!”
Surprise, here’s a metal prong through your foot! Let me tell you Marshall’s, I was indeed surprised.
Finally he shows up. “You good? You need a water?”
I am stunned and he is unhelpful. He asks for my name and number and says they will check in on me later today.
Then walks away.
The lack of help for a place that is based on customer service was so strange.
So what do I do?
I use my shopping cart as a crutch and hobble myself up to the front to buy my tank top.
After all that, I figure I shouldn’t leave without the shirt. I’ve been through enough. I can at least have a clean shirt for pictures.
As I head up to the registers, I see the manger behind the long counter. As I head towards the start of the line, I watch him out of my left peripheral. He looks up, sees me and starts to walk the opposite way out of the registers and heads into the back.
I pay for my shirt and grumble to myself. I’m in pain and I know am having many thoughts from my lower self.
The sun is hot and blinding when I exit the store. I limp walk to my car. Get in, look up at the sky and shrug.
“I am so fucking resilient. I can handle anything.” I say out loud.
Then I do the only thing I can do, I call my Dad.
Marshalls did follow up with me this week. I voiced my displeasure, they were monotone sorry and told me they don’t pay any medical insurance but if I had co-pays or prescriptions, they would reimburse me. They promised they would speak to the manager.
Then I just felt bad for getting him in trouble. Don’t get me wrong, he was the most unhelpful person I’ve encountered in a while. Yet, getting someone else in trouble doesn’t make me feel good.
Would a Marshalls gift card make me feel good? Ya, it would.
Yet, this phone call felt like, let’s check and see if she is the type of person who is planning on suing us. I do not feel as though George actually cared about my ridiculous experience or my dissatisfaction.