petty annoyances, item #3

The up-sell. I was its princess, winning awards for my nickel-and-diming prowess while working as a pasta slut at the best Italian restaurant in Regina. Getting my patrons to add a side Caesar salad to their meal or order a glass of the dry house wine consistently increased my “per person” to totals that often surpassed my fellow servers, earning me anywhere between three and five drinks on a free tab that management started under my name to show its appreciation for my cunning sales abilities. Though I acted nonchalant about the honour, I was secretly delighted, if only because bigger bills mean bigger tips.

My Ukrainian/rural Saskatchewan farm blood also makes me a fan of the up-sell in other ways. "You mean I can get twice the amount of calories and fat for only 79 cents more if I super-size this stomach ache in a wrapper? Deal!" Who wouldn’t want to maximize their hard earned money this way? Isn’t saying “yes” to the greasy faced teenager behind the till the same kind of investment strategy that Warren Buffet uses to earn his gazillions? It’s as if by declining I would disappoint my dad somehow…

But the up-sell doesn’t always induce the Liquidation World euphoria that I search for while mall-trekking. No. Sometimes it instills within me a rage so intense I almost contemplate never shopping again. (Almost!) Like last week when I braved the soul crushing experience that is (da, da, dun!) bathing suit shopping.

Prior to last Thursday, I naively thought that spray to prolong fabric was limited to leather only, like the studded black leather chaps that Adoring and Wonderful Husband just had to have last season, though they continue to sit in his closet with the tags still on alongside his velvet cape. When we bought the chaps, it was easy to decline the leather cleaner/preserver by saying, “Oh, I already have some of that under my kitchen sink at home. Thanks, maybe next time.” It was a sneaky way of giving an invisible middle finger to the big box leather chap outlet that was trying to rip us off.

But I was shocked last week when I learned that the up-sell now applies to bathing suits as well. After spending 45 minutes trying on tankinis you’d think were made of gold given how much they cost per square metre of fabric until I found one that didn’t make me want to puke as soon as I put it on, I went to the till to pay, pleased in knowing it would be another two or three years until I had to demean myself again by the ugly process that is the bathing suit shopping experience. The sales girl rang up my purchase, and casually asked if I needed any spray to go with the suit.

What? Spray? What was she talking about? The confused look on my face asked the question for me.

"Oh, it’s spray that you put on your bathing suit to keep it from fading," she told me, like – duh! – when was the last time I went bathing suit shopping?

"Oh, uh, no thanks," I replied. "I think I’m okay for now." Idiot! I thought. You should have just told her you already have some under the bathroom sink. Now she’s just going to think you’re cheap!

"Well then, just to let you know that in case you need to return the suit due to fading or anything we can’t accept it if you don’t buy the spray," she frowned, like I was the Biggest. Lowlife. Ever.

"Uh, okay, that’s fine."

And I slinked away, just happy to have the whole experience behind me, until I thought, Was that chick telling me the $90 bathing suit I just bought is crap and it’s going to fade? That’s BULL-SHIT! If this thing fades, DAMN STRAIGHT she’s going to take it back! I should have said that to her! I should have asked her why she was knowingly selling me an inferior product that was going to fade! Asked her, or are you just trying to rip me off with this little up-sell of yours?

I was fuming. And had I not just spent the better part of an hour coming to terms with the damage that decades of super-sized Happy Meals has done to my thighs, I might have been able to call the Bikini Village on what its spray up-sell actually is: the highway robbery of very vulnerable women.