the great exchange of '15

Underwear is something most people wear.  Underwear is something most people prefer.  And underwear is something that most people, at some point, have to purchase.  Henceforth, as a freshly-minted 20-year-old, sometime last week I felt it was time for me to go forth and purchase some underwear for myself.  And, apparently, as a freshly-minted 20-year-old, I am inadequate at completing that task, because I bought the wrong kind.

Thus, it was upon the necessity to return said purchase and acquire the correct variety that I set forth on Saturday to complete my quest for underwear.  I happened to be accompanied by Benjamin (fondly referred to as Panda), who had kindly agreed to let me drive to Anderson with him for some errand-running.  And so my story begins, just me and my sister's boyfriend, walking into Target for the sole purpose of exchanging underwear.

At first, I tried to play it cool.  This wasn't weird, everybody has to buy undies from time to time, no biggie.

After negotiating the ridiculous variety of undergarments presented to me, I picked my poison and made a bee line for the exchange desk, where Benjamin was waiting for me to check out.  Just as we were approaching two employees walked up.  One male, and one female.  I desperately tried to project red-alert mental waves in an attempt to renew the pact of the girl-code with the female.

Alas, my efforts were in vain.  To my horror the male, an overly-groomed youth who was prettier than me, uttered those dreaded words.

I can help you over here.

With a deep breath I accepted my fate and responded to his invitation.

I placed my unmentionables on the counter and looked up.  GAHHHGGGGGG MAKE IT STOP.

Somewhere deep inside of me I summoned up the courage to look that pretty boy in the eye and communicate that I had purchased the wrong kind of undies.  

To his credit he maintained the same bored and lofty countenance the entire time.  I attempted to do the same.  With steely professionalism I stared Fabio down as he handled my granny-panties.

Slowwwwwwllllyyyyy he scanned those acursed packages and with bovine deftness he typed in the exchange.  Finally the trade-off was complete, and with little attempt at grace I fled the realm of the dreaded panty-scanner.

I walked away that day, with victory undies in hand and a giggling Panda by my side.  I can do anything now.