Issue link: https://imageup.uberflip.com/i/565109
10 OUR YUCAIPA | SEPTEMBER 2015 The Middle of the Road: By Randy Peters, a middle-aged, middle-income, middle-school teacher Do these pants make me look poor? My wife and I just celebrated our 29th anniversary. As part of the celebration we marked off another anniversary — one that we don't seem to celebrate nearly as often as we used to. Sure when we were younger we were more reckless and worry free. Time and energy were on our sides. We had mojo. Then came the kids and that seemed to take a lot of our focus away. But now… the kids are adults and have moved away. We have more time for ourselves, so we went for it. We marked our calendars, cleared our schedules, and recreated the celebration of our youth. We went to the anniversary sale at Nordstrom! The entire drive out to Riverside, I kept telling my wife that I didn't need any new clothes. She brings up the argument she always does and wins. She looks me straight in the eye and says, "Honey, you need nicer clothes. Sometimes we may go to a nice place with other people around. You can't wear the same pair of jeans and baggy shirt wherever we go." This makes very little sense to me. I wonder why I can't wear the same jeans and baggy shirt. They're comfortable. And isn't that the advantage to always wearing jeans? You can dress them up or down depending on your shoes and baggy shirt. Right? Entering Nordstrom is an experience unto itself. It's one of the few places that as I leave the car and walk to the door, I check myself for crumbs, coffee stains, and open zippers. After all, this isn't Walmart; it's Nordstrom. I look at the other pilgrims on their way toward the shopping Mecca. Are we wearing the same level of clothing? I certainly don't want the employees to think I can afford a whole new wardrobe and complete their commission quota in one day. But, on the other hand, I don't want to be ignored or escorted right past the fragrance models and into the mall. We approach the door. The valet is close by and opens the door and wishes us a good afternoon. Oh great! Already a dilemma: Do I tip this guy? Does he expect one? How much? If I don't tip him now, what will happen if he's there when we come out? As I work through my anxiety, I realize we are walking through the door. My wife, showing leadership and tact, smiles and thanks him. He smiles back and wishes us a good afternoon. Well, that turned out fine. That's when the transformation took place. We walk onto the marble tiles. The air was cool and clean. Music plays through the high-end speaker system. Clothes and displays are neat and organized. No merchandise was on the floor or only using half a hanger. I take a deep breath. This is my kind of place. Oh, how I've missed you, Nordstrom. Your service representatives don't even need name tags. They aren't rushing us as we enter. I take another breath. Somehow, I felt six inches taller. I'm sure I felt my chest fill out, my abs tighten, and my wallet expands. I didn't recognize the return of Nordstrom mojo. My wife suggests that we look at men's clothing. I strut over there with the newly found confidence of my surroundings. I stand by the table of pants and look around for what I thought was just a moment. I look back at my wife and notice she has several pairs of pants, at least five shirts, and a belt in her arms. Her new best friend and Nordstrom service representative, Monica, comes up and offers to take the wardrobe and start a dressing room for me. I didn't know I had to try on clothes. Did you look at the price tags? Can't we just pick the cheapest article and go home? My mojo and wallet were fading quickly, but I think my wife's was peaking. She smiles with a bit of Stepford Wife charm and tells me that there was a pair of jeans in the mix. Well, alright then. I'll go try things on. I don't understand why building contractors apparently don't put air ducts in the dressing rooms. You go out front — nice and cool. You go into the dressing rooms — hot and humid. I try on the first pair of pants, then the second, then the third. That's when I realize there is a conspiracy. Nothing is fitting. Somebody also turned the heat on in the dressing room. It feels like a sauna. I try on the jeans. There are four inches of fabric dragging on the ground, but the rest fits. I walk out to show my wife. Her new friend, Monica, is there. Monica looks at me and says she's going to get the tailor and some water since I look a little warm. Warm? My cheeks are red and my hair is plastered to the side of my head. My wife reminds me to breathe and tells me how good the jeans look. The oxygen and boost to my ego calms me down. The mojo is returning. I expected a small cup of warm water from Monica. But instead she presented a large fancy plastic cup with lid, straw, and a mountain of ice. Behind Monica was the tailor who somehow knew my name and asked what he could do to make these pants even better. The tailor pins up the jeans and we decide to make the purchase. My wife assures me that they are 40 percent off. I don't even look at the tag. My mojo is back, so why worry? They're just jeans. After I make plans to come back in a week to pick up my tailored jeans, I notice what we just paid. These jeans must have been lined with something beyond my fashion sense. I'm glad they were on sale because I don't even think a Kardashian would have paid full price. The jeans are currently hanging in my closet. As of this writing, I haven't worn them yet. I'm afraid to get them dirty. Mojo is a funny thing. Keep your eyes on the road..