Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.

Last night I had a dream that I walked into what I think might have been the Gap, and instantly fell victim to a predatory sales stalker.  Salespeople at stores such as these are trained to greet you and offer assistance upon your entrance.  I understand the rational behind this, and for the average person it probably has positive results, but in my case, it sends me into a self-conscious breakdown.  After immediately saying no thanks and that “I’m just here to browse”, I instantly feel like I’m being watched for the duration of my time inside the store.  I can’t help but feel that every step I take is being anticipated and every item I look at is being judged.  The anxiety builds up to a point that I become too scared to show too much interest in any given item, lest I become the newest potential sale in the store and immediately find myself swarmed by the nearest worker.  This very scenario unfolded in my dream, leading to what became a very Jason Bourne-like, cat-and-mouse sequence in which I found myself running through the store trying to evade the salesmen tracking me down.   This neurotic paranoia usually deters me from doing any shopping other than what my mom brings home or what can be found online.  A social handicap?   Just maybe.

 Further self analysis might reveal that I have comfort abandonment issues.  I have a bubble that I like to maintain and when it gets popped either because it’s been invaded or I try to step out, I usually become mentally unraveled.   Sometimes you’re either in your element or your not.  John Goodman understood that.

 Take our next scene for example.  A simple trip to Wal-Mart.  On one such occasion I needed to restock on some white t-shirts.  Get in, buy the pack of shirts, get out. That simple. False.  I instantly find my self a rookie amongst seasoned veterans, and I know the regulars can smell the fresh meat. This time I’m not just talking about the sales people.  Wal-Mart is the Mecca-like daily destination of just about every mom in the United States.  Who am I to encroach?  There I come, walking through the door, breaking a cold sweat, palms clammy, and a slight nervous twitch.  There are moms carrying three kids in two arms with a fourth riding under the cart, all under the age of 5, who are burning ground past me through the aisles, while I’m walking through the shopping labyrinth like a stunned lab rat, asking the greeter if they sell in house directional maps.  Very quickly I found myself once again out of my element and out the front door.  I become inexplicably anxious when I’m amongst so many people who know what they’re doing.  I think that’s how the universe wants it though.  Those who shop, should shop, and those who are socially inept and suffer crowd induced anxiety, should remain in private and closed quarters unless accompanied by a chaperone.