A couple months ago, Mom and I were spending an afternoon browsing in the Meatpacking District. As one is wont to do, we ambled into Anthropologie and made a beeline for the sale section.
Shopping at Anthropologie is, more or less, a habit from my more youthful past (of five years ago). With a bent toward the whimsical, most of Anthropologie’s offerings now seem too young for me. Life has pretty much beaten all the whimsy out of me. Nevertheless, I like to peek every now and then.
On that April day, I came across a colorful cardigan I had seen the last time I was in Anthropologie. It was marked $89, on sale from $118 or some preposterous price. But somehow I just knew that it was supposed to be cheaper than that.
“I’m just going to ask at the register,” I said. “It might have gone on sale even more and they forgot to mark it.”
“I don’t know. I suppose you can ask,” Mom said skeptically.
“I just have a feeling,” I continued. “Something inside me says it’s supposed to be much less.”
“Well, it can’t hurt to ask,” Mom, with no less skepticism.
At the register I handed the woman the sweater. “Is this priced as marked, or has it gone on sale more?”
She rang it up—for $29, which I happily forked over. “It’s good you asked. Occasionally we forget to mark something down when it goes on sale again.” Everyone—Mom, the saleswoman, especially me—was duly impressed with me.
“I just had this feeling,” I explained.
Now let’s face it. If I were a true psychic, I wouldn’t have to shop on things for sale because I’d have won the lottery a hundred times over, since I would know the winning numbers ahead of time. But I guess I’ll take whatever little powers I can get, and for now I suppose I’ll have to settle for being a sartorial psychic.