Je Suis Une Emergence

It's 7:45pm and I run out of cording in the middle of my mock-up. One would think thirty yards of the mystery cording we uncovered from a supply closet in the library while cleaning this summer would have been enough.

Oh no. Oh no no no. 

Google returns my request for the fabric store hours. Apparently, the establishment closes at 8:00. 

With the swiftness and grace of a baby giraffe learning to walk, I leap from the sewing hole in which I now reside for the first time in hours. Though, my journey is halted when I realize a sample of the cording would be crucial for determining the width of whatever shit JoAnn happens to have in stock. And then, my mind turns to the newly arrived fabric for which I possess no matching thread. 

Snip, snip. I grab swatches of both and run to collect shoes. 

What is that voice I hear from downstairs? Mother? Ma mère?

Oui. 

She sits upon the couch practicing French avec that pesky little Duo Lingo owl who knows what you did last summer. 

Unaccustomed to the sight of me running, she gawks at the shocking display: a frazzled woman of six feet sauntering through the entryway while holding two crumbs of a sewing project aloft like an Olympic torch. 

She continues with the French. 

Still, I feel justified in yelling to a room with no other occupants, "EMERGENCY JOANN TRIP" as I run past her and to my odd pile of shoes near the garage door. 

Her reply is simple. 

"Okay." 

She returns to the French, muttering something that sounds like a goodbye.

Wanting to fit in, my farewell is en francais. "Au revoir!" But mother is not talking to me, she only repeats the prompt from the taunting owl. 

Not knowing the proper words to string together to convey my dire situation, I guess. For it is my birthright as an American to assume to know things about Europe. 

As I exit the home, I clumsily call out, "JE SUIS EMERGENCE," thinking emergence in a shite accent means something akin to the word emergency.

Non. It means emergence. 

The looming threat of the upcoming national Day of Labor hastens me. For what if I am unable to accomplish this task simply because JoAnn is closed? 

I push through the front door with the gusto of an enraged Dumbledore who demands to know if Harry put his name into the Goblet of Fire. Unlike many other areas in life, in this nearly empty craft supply store, I know precisely where I need to go. 

The thread is on the left. Frantically, I search for a hue to match the outer layer of the corset. In my haste, one spool of polyester string flies from its display and to the floor, landing with a clatter. I reach for the yeeted thread but a youth who is bare in feet yet holding their shoes dives for it. 

I have not the time nor the desire to question the child for those are not my feet. There are greater matters at hand. Not foot. 

Nearing the back of the store, drab-colored thread in hand, I am presented with few options in the way of cording. Luckily, there is a good match among them; one medium-sized bolt that was almost full. Pleased by the discovery and ready to distance myself from so many flammable plastic items, I confidently stride to the checkout counters. 

I set the entire bolt of cording and handful of thread on the counter. I start thinking that I have made a most brilliant series of decisions and the cashier interrupts.

"How much of this was there?" they gesture to the bolt of cording.

My response is, "Oh, sorry. I want the whole thing." 

"Someone still has to measure it for you at the cut counter. It's an incomplete bolt." 

I feel my heart fall into my butt. The bolt bares the initial yardage and it reads 144. 

The bolt in my hands contains anywhere between 144 and 0 yards. 

Some poor soul working at JoAnn on this Saturday night is about to be tested in ways unknown to many. Some poor soul must unravel the cording and count each yard individually. After which, I shall know my price.

There is no good way to approach the subject of forcing someone who is not paid enough to do something so ridiculous. And this request is the stuff of legend when it comes to customer service tales of woe. 

The cut counter person looks mildly done with the day as I step forward like the apologetic inflating tube person things in front of car dealerships that I am. 

Watching the suffering I am inflicting on an undeserving stranger becomes so painful that I pretend to look at the displays of fabric while each and every yard of cord was slowly rolled out and measured. 

The distant sounds of an entire family arguing about Halloween costumes ring through my mind while I awkwardly shuffle about the specialty fabrics thinking a series of four-letter words. Waves of guilt and anxiety wash over me one after another. 

But I need this cording. My cup runneth under. I have already exhausted the 30 yards of mystery cording that were uncovered from a closet that had not been cleaned since before the collapse of the Soviet Union. My options are few.

How much time has passed is unknown. The moments drag on due to the anxiety the situation is causing. 

They are finished at last. I watch as the cord is wound once more onto the spool. 

Now the only thing to do is apologize and thank this person profusely before taking the slip of paper that displays the quantity of material and the price before quietly exiting. What a good sport they are about the entire situation. Though, it is unlikely they are at all bothered by me leaving. 

I wind my way once again to the front register where the same employee still stands diligently at their post. The number written upon this paper, however, stops me in my tracks. The total yardage is nearly 99. A pang of guilt surges through me and another soon follows when I see the price. Just over $100. 

Under any other circumstance, ditching the bolt of cording on my way out would be an easy option. But I just tortured this poor person for a good half hour. 

Ah, a pox upon myself! How did I not comprehend the price per yard before getting the lives of innocents mixed into the madness? Leaving the cording in the correct area could result in the cut counter attendant watching me sheepishly duck behind the aisle to put it back. 

However, were I to leave the cursed roll in another section, it would surely stand out as an oddity when employees closed the store and saw the cording hanging around the neck of an unwitting scarecrow. Or possibly resting in a bowl reading something like, "happy fall, y'all." 

To avoid a public outburst at JoAnn that was sure to misrepresent who I am, I froze and bought it. Checkout, thankfully, offered a 40% off coupon for one regular-priced item. Still, I am going to look for cheaper alternatives on the internet immediately after posting this. They will take back the extremely overpriced cord as I have yet to use it. 

Social situations involving monetary transactions are a massive weakness for me. My anxiety used to come out in a wide variety of colors and flavors. And for some reason, stores are the remaining environments that regularly freak me out after years of therapy. 

Je suis une emergence. I am an emergency. 

I know this isn't an actual update on my corset progress and for that I am sorry. This thing happened and I just felt like telling people about it because it's equally hilarious and horrifying to me. I've been working on this fitting nonsense every spare moment I get so please stick around. 

Have a great one!

-Rachel