My friend and I left the university to head down town for a minor shopping session. She was hunting a birthday gift for her man, I was in search of a pair of pants that did not make me want to set fire to myself.
We were walking around the men’s section at a disturbingly large store looking for a sweater for the man in question. Not being able to give any advice to aid the search for something in the gift recipient’s apparent taste, I instead amused myself by silently ranking the male models on the huge advertisement billboards after how attractive I found them. I appeared to rank them in order of appearance, a rather fascinating coincident. I valued a moody looking beard over a rather awkward feminine posture, a way-too-obviously-good-looking smile over the beard and ending at, rather foolishly, the one modeling something I think might have been sleep-wear – maybe I was tired but in my state of wandering around the store I found that he had a certain allure.
Perhaps in the mindset of the pajama model I later ended up buying a pair of boyfriend-cut jeans. It does not really fit with the rest of my style that most often is skin tight and/or lacy. To be honest I doubt I have a pair of shoes that I in wintertime can match with the pants. Yet it was just these kind of pants that I had been looking for – large, roomy, sexy casual. Maybe it is the fault of the lingering Christmas food begging me for something loose-fitting.
Our dinner-date was a complete disaster, just the way the two of us sometimes rub each other wrong, we did so once again. Misunderstandings, rudeness – probably mostly on my part, and frustration followed and I was amazed, while in conversation, how we seemed to speak so different languages. In situations like this I feel like I really have no power over where the conversation is heading. Like a train on rails it seemed to go all on its own into a corner in which nothing of what I had intended to mean was said, and I admit my shortcomings in understanding what my friend wanted to express as well. It is frustrating to, while participating also watch like an outsider how the both of us sometimes add coal to the locomotive’s furnace without neither really wanting to. Yet crashing as we often do, we also always seem to get the train running in the right direction again.
Perfume shopping is our end stop and once again focus is in the male domain, I do not mind. Instead I allow myself a trip down memory lane. I spray the perfume twice on the little white paper, smelling the perfume I once bought for someone. Almost laughing at the apathy I feel as I realize that I really do not recall the smell. For a moment I wonder if it is the smell that is forgotten or if it is the name of the perfume.