I had no idea what I was about to get into. My friend Nacho and I had just finished watching Avatar (if you ever want advice on how to smuggle 4 hamburgers, 2 cokes, and 2 fries in to a movie theater, let me know). I won’t delve too much into my thoughts on the movie other than, yes, I’m a fan, and was happy to have the food. :)

After the film, Nacho, who I swear is more of a girl than I am (ha, he’ll kill me for saying that… better put, he’s a Macho Argentine with a wicked sense of fashion who works for one of the largest cosmetic companies in the world), suggested popping in to a few shops. “Let’s check it out, the sales are on.” It was the first weekend of the famed Parisian Sales, Les Soldes de Paris, the one month of January where stores are legally allowed to discount their merchandise. I thought, ”Sure, why not?” We ducked in to Zara.

Madness. This was the not-as-crowded section.

Dear God. It was utter madness! Think Oxford Street in London right before Christmas, and add the discount provocation. Women with huge bags would literally push you out of their way as they attempted to get to an item they had spotted through the mass of clientele. Shoppers would all but rip the product you were fingering from under your hand so they could try it on first. All etiquette was thrown out the window. People didn’t even bother to say “pardon” as they bumped and shoved their way around the store. It didn’t take long for me to follow suit, there were just too many people and too many collisions to care. It didn’t matter any more, it was what you had to do and everyone accepted that.

Did I really catch a Parisienne picking her nose? Oh man, I think she's just scratching it, but that would have been awesome.

Now, I am not much of a shopper. I love a good bargain, but am pretty bad at fighting for it. Once I have to rifle through piles and piles of goods and elbow people just to look at a top, I lose interest. This is why, when I do go shopping, I end up spending more than I should. More often than not, I skip it entirely and settle for the dork look.

The prices were actually good, though, so I bit the bullet and dove in to the fray with fervor. Before I knew it, I had an armful of things I didn’t need. The queue to the fitting rooms snaked around the perimeter of the store, so I opted to plant myself in front of a mirror and try stuff on over my clothes. This of course meant fighting for the mirror with the 5 other girls and their piles, doing the same thing. After working up a good sweat, I ended up with a single t-shirt. It is gray with a giant bright drawing of Wembley Fraggle on the front. I proudly held it up to Nacho, who had purchased a classy leather jacket. He smiled politely and said “hehhh, it’s nice… where would you wear it?”

I’m wearing it to work today. I wish I could have videotaped the top-to-bottom look I got from a typically trendy woman as we waited for coffee this morning. I don’t think it’s so bad, so there. I will wear my Fraggle’s googley-eyes proudly.

My Wembley Fraggle Tee, at work