The worst shopping story ever

Have you ever done something that you later thought was so, SO incredibly stupid of yourself? That you wished you could turn back time? Well, that smart choice... Bijenkorf to be clear.

I honestly still don't know if I can manage to get this story down on paper, but you're a writer or you're not, and who knows, this might work as therapy. Yep, this all sounds pretty dramatic, I get it, but believe me: it was. Before I went on vacation to Valencia, there was still some time for a few last-minute holiday purchases. A scrub, sunscreen, , inflatable pineapple from Hema; you know it. I had also arranged to meet a friend to check out Bijenkorf. I had a gift card worth 150 euros in my pocket, and who knows, maybe I could score a nice summer dress. Suddenly, I find myself in the Marc Jacobs bag section. Not exactly the plan, but sometimes the spirit is stronger than the wallet. I hold up a black round crossbody model made of soft leather. My friend nods approvingly.

“Finally a black model, Kiek. You always buy those busy things. Look, this bag you can wear anywhere.” She's right. I look inside the bag and see that the Marcie is quite spacious. It can definitely fit a half-liter bottle of water. A makeup bag, brush, keys, a passport, and then three apples if I wanted to. I turn the price tag over.

 
Four hundred ninety-nine euros. What a crappy word to write down, by the way. Let me start by saying that five hundred euros is of course always a lot for a bag, but for a ‘decent’ bag that doesn't even steal the show (like this) I think five hundred is just a waste of money. But once I put on Marcje and look critically in the mirror, I immediately see that this is a bag that can be used at any time. And fuck it, I still had that 150 gift card, so technically Marcje only costs 350 euros.

“Then everything goes in a haze”

Once I arrive at the checkout, I see the employee fumbling a bit. Probably new. She scans my bag, looks surprised for a second, and then says: “Nice, right, those discounts!” I look at her questioningly. “This bag is 70 percent off. That leaves 150 euros and 70 cents.” I'm already standing there with my debit card in hand, but I'm totally overwhelmed by the new price of my beloved Marcje. “REALLY? For THAT bag? How CHILL!” I exclaim a bit too enthusiastically. This must be my lucky day. So I can pay for that bag with my gift card, and technically it only costs 70 cents (!). Where is that party? HERE is that fee-. Anyway. I tap my friend hysterically and say that there might be more bags with 70 percent off and that she really should take that little sweetheart she was just doubting about. I take a small step aside to the stand with the bags and hold up a few more examples for my friend. I think in my head: gosh, I don't see any stickers with 70 percent off or anything. The saleswoman laughs at my enthusiasm, then looks at me with a somewhat strange look and then looks again at the bag.

 
Oh. My. God.

 
Then everything goes in a haze. I hear her say the words “wait, colleague, come here” out loud. I look at my friend and go pale. I immediately feel a punch in my stomach from acute regret and could bite my tongue off from misery. “No, look, you're scanning wrong,” I hear the clearly experienced bag manager of the department say to the young employee. The woman with her tight bun and perfectly painted lips looks at me dryly. “Now the price is correct.” The girl looks at me apologetically. “Uh, sorry. Something went wrong. That will be five hundred euros, please.” I look sourly at the bag. That bag for which I wanted to pay five hundred euros just three minutes ago is now suddenly not worth it anymore. That's how the brain works too. “I have a gift card,” I mumble. Shuffling, I walk out of Bijenkorf with Marcje-can-hit-me-well-for-my-Jacobs. What a shitty day. What a shitty bag.

P.S.: Okay, the attack of my inner grumpy cat lasted exactly about 72 hours. During which I genuinely considered returning the bag out of rage. But blaming Marc for my stupidity is not fair. And the poor girl might have been fired otherwise. Everything has been forgiven and forgotten by now. You see: every marriage has its wrinkles. Until death do us part, right, Marc?

 
P.P.S.: The next person who gives me a Bijenkorf Gift Card will get a reprimand regarding an emerging trauma for which I apologize in advance.