Sale!

The other day I got a text message on my cell phone. This is unusual because I don't text message - a cell phone call is more than enough of an intrusion. Why I'd want little letters chattering at me nonstop all day is beyond sanity.

The text message was from not even from a human-type person, but instead from one of my favorite places to overheat a credit card. "Your boots are 30% off!" the message purred, "And there's only one pair left!!!" A double-edged crisis indeed. On the one hand, this was a bit of an intrusion on my privacy. On the other hand, dang, it was a shoe sale, for Jimmy Choo's sake.

Several months ago I had tried on a pair of sharp-looking boots and a crafty salesperson had made note of it, hoping to eventually snare me via text messaging. It worked. I had to rescue my boots before someone else snapped them up. After all, the message said they were mine. If only I could remember what they looked like.

The shoe store was in the next town over. Who knows how many other boot-craving women had been contacted about this and were at this very moment en route to claim my boots. Mine. I had to find a way to beat them to it. Texting back seemed the fastest way. My crafty, super-techy idea impressed my own self - those silly girls who thought they could zip to the mall and win would soon know they were competing with a champion shopper, one who knew every sale, every coupon, and holstered a bottomless credit card. And so I replied, making personal history by sending my first ever text message.

"Yes," I tapped, "Size 8 1/2." send.

"What?" came the reply. I looked at my text message. I had sent, "yeeers 88122!$@" Damn those fat fingers.

"Boots," I begged. "Now, please. Sale?"

"May I help you?" the stupid little box blinked at me.

"The ones I wanted," I tapped nervously. "Boots...me want." Texting a la Tarzan.

"Shall I reserve something for you?" inquired Snarky box.

"Yes... me....boooootz...." Even for me this was getting embarrassing.

"Please visit our store for more information!" chirped the text brightly. Pretty safe response to my gurgling nonsense. I had always disliked the Politically Correct trend, but this new Shiny Nice Customer Non-service had PC beat by a useless mile.

Looking on the bright side, at least I had attempted to text and gotten a response. That was a step in right direction. But if I were to continue my steps, I needed those boots. So I drove to the mall and got them. Apparently they had just gotten a new shipment in since they now had at least eleven pairs in my size. No matter, a crisis in footwear had been avoided. Chicken soup for the sole, as it were.

Dang if I weren't stylin'! After all, if you're gonna flaunt your techy-text ways, you'd best be lookin' good.