Shoplifting Anxiety
Something which for years has caused me anxiety, a type which is utterly irrational considering the nature of what I'm worried about, are the alarm gates in retail stores. I have this bizarre obsessive thought, usually when I've gone into a store to browse and haven't actually purchased anything, that as I'm leaving I'm going to be accused of shoplifting.
As I approach the alarm gates, often I'll grit my teeth in worry that they'll unleash their chorus of beeps upon me as I get too close. And then, suddenly keenly aware of my own nerves, I do my best to paint my face into as nonchalant an expression as I can, so that I don't look too guilty to the cashiers and security guards, which I'm sure probably ends up being completely self-defeating.
The occasional time when the alarm actually does go off, I practically jump out of my skin. If I could see it from someone else's point of view, it's probably pretty amusing.
Admittedly, the layout of many modern stores only reinforces this fear: it's hard to find a retail establishment anymore which doesn't force you to walk through the cashier lines in order to leave. If you haven't purchased anything, it's particularly awkward to push your way past droves of good little consumers to make your way out the door, occasionally inspiring the wrath of someone who thinks you're trying to cut past them in line. It's as if the stores have devised this tactic as a way to guilt trip you into buying at least something, to serve as your legitimate ticket through the exit door. "See! Look! I bought something! It's okay for me to leave!"
The other component of my shoplifting paranoia is with regard to various stores' bag policies. When journeying around town, I usually carry a small backpack around with me, so that I'm equipped with at least a book to read, a camera, and something to write with,no matter where I end up. Many stores have a "Leave all bags at the front" policy, and, feeling like I should spare shopkeepers the debate over having to decide whether to approach me about it, I usually volunteer my bag when I walk in. Oddly enough, at most stores where this happens (CD shops, or comic book stores, for example), the offering of my bag elicits a strange response, as if there had really been no need for me to worry about it, and that I could have proceeded with my backpack with impunity.
Not so, today, however, when Oana and I stepped into Canadian Tire to evaluate their assortment of bird feeders, and, having proceeded about 10 meters into the store, I was hailed shrilly, and then chased down, by one of the cashiers who asked to take my bag and keep it for me at the front. I was startled, and even slightly offended. This got me to wondering, "Why is it that I hand over my bag voluntarily at so many shops, and don't worry about it at all, but here today, when they asked for it, I'm suddenly so put off, and even worried that I'll never see it again?"
It seemed even stranger that this should happen at Canadian Tire, of all places. Especially when so many other stores don't seem to care at all. And then it all hit me, as we turned into the bocci ball and lawn volleyball aisle.
"I know what it is!" I said out loud. Oana looked at me skeptically, as if this were about to be one of those afternoons when she would find herself having to explain to the staff of yet another establishment that the man accompanying her is actually an insane person whom she barely knows, and whom she promises to escort back to Riverview as soon as our errand is complete. "All those music stores, they think I'm not young and hip enough to steal CDs anymore. The thought of me handing over my bag to them is actually kind of amusing. But here, they see me as just the kind of desperate 30-something type who would stealthily cram a bag full of grilling tools and mosquito repellants and lurk back off to some new house in the suburbs. You think that's it?"
Apparently the question didn't warrant a response.
"You know," I continued. "I'm actually kind of offended. I don't seem like that, right? And even so, is that even what middle-aged yuppies do? They outgrow stealing earrings and music at the mall, and progress up to pilfering home improvement supplies? You better keep a close eye on those little solar-powered lawn lights, Canadian Tire. Here I am, ready to fill my baggy pants with them. . . ."
"You know," she cut in. "Let's just go get your backpack and go home. Don't worry about it. You look perfectly young to me."
"Really? You still think I seem youthful enough to go after CDs and video games and comic books instead?"
"Of course," she said, taking my hand, reassuringly. "But let's go, all the same. Plus, that girl seemed suspicious to me — I think she's hoping you would forget and leave your camera here, so she could steal it."
As I approach the alarm gates, often I'll grit my teeth in worry that they'll unleash their chorus of beeps upon me as I get too close. And then, suddenly keenly aware of my own nerves, I do my best to paint my face into as nonchalant an expression as I can, so that I don't look too guilty to the cashiers and security guards, which I'm sure probably ends up being completely self-defeating.
The occasional time when the alarm actually does go off, I practically jump out of my skin. If I could see it from someone else's point of view, it's probably pretty amusing.
Admittedly, the layout of many modern stores only reinforces this fear: it's hard to find a retail establishment anymore which doesn't force you to walk through the cashier lines in order to leave. If you haven't purchased anything, it's particularly awkward to push your way past droves of good little consumers to make your way out the door, occasionally inspiring the wrath of someone who thinks you're trying to cut past them in line. It's as if the stores have devised this tactic as a way to guilt trip you into buying at least something, to serve as your legitimate ticket through the exit door. "See! Look! I bought something! It's okay for me to leave!"
The other component of my shoplifting paranoia is with regard to various stores' bag policies. When journeying around town, I usually carry a small backpack around with me, so that I'm equipped with at least a book to read, a camera, and something to write with,no matter where I end up. Many stores have a "Leave all bags at the front" policy, and, feeling like I should spare shopkeepers the debate over having to decide whether to approach me about it, I usually volunteer my bag when I walk in. Oddly enough, at most stores where this happens (CD shops, or comic book stores, for example), the offering of my bag elicits a strange response, as if there had really been no need for me to worry about it, and that I could have proceeded with my backpack with impunity.
Not so, today, however, when Oana and I stepped into Canadian Tire to evaluate their assortment of bird feeders, and, having proceeded about 10 meters into the store, I was hailed shrilly, and then chased down, by one of the cashiers who asked to take my bag and keep it for me at the front. I was startled, and even slightly offended. This got me to wondering, "Why is it that I hand over my bag voluntarily at so many shops, and don't worry about it at all, but here today, when they asked for it, I'm suddenly so put off, and even worried that I'll never see it again?"
It seemed even stranger that this should happen at Canadian Tire, of all places. Especially when so many other stores don't seem to care at all. And then it all hit me, as we turned into the bocci ball and lawn volleyball aisle.
"I know what it is!" I said out loud. Oana looked at me skeptically, as if this were about to be one of those afternoons when she would find herself having to explain to the staff of yet another establishment that the man accompanying her is actually an insane person whom she barely knows, and whom she promises to escort back to Riverview as soon as our errand is complete. "All those music stores, they think I'm not young and hip enough to steal CDs anymore. The thought of me handing over my bag to them is actually kind of amusing. But here, they see me as just the kind of desperate 30-something type who would stealthily cram a bag full of grilling tools and mosquito repellants and lurk back off to some new house in the suburbs. You think that's it?"
Apparently the question didn't warrant a response.
"You know," I continued. "I'm actually kind of offended. I don't seem like that, right? And even so, is that even what middle-aged yuppies do? They outgrow stealing earrings and music at the mall, and progress up to pilfering home improvement supplies? You better keep a close eye on those little solar-powered lawn lights, Canadian Tire. Here I am, ready to fill my baggy pants with them. . . ."
"You know," she cut in. "Let's just go get your backpack and go home. Don't worry about it. You look perfectly young to me."
"Really? You still think I seem youthful enough to go after CDs and video games and comic books instead?"
"Of course," she said, taking my hand, reassuringly. "But let's go, all the same. Plus, that girl seemed suspicious to me — I think she's hoping you would forget and leave your camera here, so she could steal it."