After scouring the Holyoke Mall for a wrap to accent my bridesmaid dress/keep me warm for the nuptials of Dianne and Garrett (raises glass), I reluctantly made a Hail Mary turn into Abercrombie and Fitch (cringes with you). I had forgotten my gas mask so pulled my jacket over mouth and nose to protect my lungs from the toxicity that is Abercrombie FIERCE, the alleged blend of marine breeze, cashmere wood, and sensual musk.

I get halfway through the store, and am forced to make a vital decision: proceed and risk loss of brain cells from oxygen deprivation, OR make a run for it and have to visit more stores. It’s lose lose, and at this point I’m pretty sure I’m already down a few brain cells, so I press on towards the sale section.

I realize two things en route: 1) I am the oldest person in the store. 2) This is the worst place I have ever been.

Because the universe loves to play games with me, Abercrombie and Fitch has a sweater that will work, so I grab a couple of sizes and head to the try-on cabana (oh wait, that’s the other teeny bopper garment mecca…Hollister Co… “So Cal inspired clothing for Guys and Girls”).  Much to my dismay, all the doors are locked, so I have to approach the clique of employee cool kids #highschoolroyalty #soulless to humbly request a changing space. One of them spots me squinting at the group trying to figure out if any of them actually work there, since they’re all dressed like the first day of senior year. The captain of the rugby team walks over and unlocks the door. (I notice his bronze, brawny bicep as he lifts the key, which is for sure how he got the gig.)

I’m in and out of the little chamber like lightening. Fits, boom, good…over to check out…losing brain cells by the second.

No, I don’t want to join the Abercrombie cult; yes, Visa.

Then he presents me with the purchase…and my true punishment for choosing this establishment (where I’ve heard the CEO has unabashedly confirmed a “hot” people hiring agenda) is understood.

I look at him, then look at the bag, and have no words but start to laugh like I’m thirty years older than him versus ten…(or, ehem, twelve), like this is too ridiculously comical to even comment on… I have nothing for you, is what I imagine my expression says.

The cashier catches my attention to the bag, senses for a moment that there may be a world beyond the doors of Abercrombie, and sheepishly apologizes for its design. “It’s the only one we have.” I hadn’t said anything, but I like to think I give off this magical feminist vibe that says, “Really, high school prom king, you’re handing me a bag with half naked people on it…with a half naked woman on it, to tote around the mall? Try harder.”

I guess, for me, the thing is…little kids also go to the mall, and I’m not sure that an Abercrombie and Fitch bag is the way that I want to start the conversation with my kid on pressing one’s body into another, jeans only. And let’s face it, who by societal norms is more vulnerable on that bag? I see shirtless men running, or catching rays at the beach all the time.

So call me a prude I suppose, but I was a bit embarrassed to carry this thing around. I kept staring at it, and then wondered if people saw me staring at it, and then started laughing to myself, and then quickly departed the mall to save any parents from the unfortunate, “why do they have expensive pants, but no shirts” conversation.

It is now four hours later. I realized that in the seductive dimness of Abercrombie High, I may have misjudged the color of the garment…and my whole apartment smells Abercrombie FIERCE.