the pop-back - final sale nerves

Tuesday…

source: gizmodo.com

I check the screen between meetings
There couldn't be many left.
I should order right now, time is fleeting,
I could wait but I might be bereft...

Someone's assistant hands me a post-it -
someone else is stuck in traffic -
why do I dither? I've diagnosed it:
final sale worries, poor fit and sad service
are some of the things that are making me nervous
 and detached from the targeted demographic.
Corridor, iPhone, click, click, click. They thank me, they're grateful.
They confirm within hours:
Yes, that's the order, it's been released.
but I still don't know if I'll get it.

I seem to have given these folks unknown powers

as if their indifference were somehow fateful.

source: an email someone sent me

if the shippers hurry, I could be at peace,

and know if I love it or if I regret it.

People get the strangest gifts from me:
don't get me wrong, I return the defective,
the mis-sized, the soiled, the broken, the used,
the skirt with a faded streak on the tummy.
But sometimes I have to step back, be objective:
Who would like this? Whose dream am I holding?
Whose sweet little face would with joy be suffused?
Whose fashion sense could I be molding?

That's why baby sisters were invented, of course she'd love a not-quite-flannel shirt!

On the arrival of a package

Emails and fanfares and notifications

herald the arrival of my beautiful shoes.

My feet are dancing in anticipation,

My package is coming – oh joy! Oh joy!

It's Christmas in April, I'll have some new toys!

I ordered two shirts – confirmed! And shipped!
I ordered pajamas, I'll be so well equipped,
I ordered a jacket and two pairs of pants
Should the world situation take me to France
And in case of global warming
or a crisis that calls for disarming
or a nuclear threat from a fanatical meanie,

I'll distract the bad guys in my paisley bikini.

(dreams on)
 

After a wait, the package is here!

Oh, happiness! Oh, joy! Oh – dear.

With a hurried but thorough inspection

I learn that my treasures fall short of perfection.

The jacket is missing a button, a zipper has broken a tooth,
one of the shirts, um, smells kinda funny,
and the PJ's are well past their youth.
     We won't even discuss the shoes.

Noooo, how could this happen, to me of all people?

I pick up the phone, in voice trembling and feeble
I recount the disaster to customer service
and list my woes in descending order

to a blank-voiced Martian on a training recorder.

She turns my tales of woe to fiction:

The broken zipper's a designer feature,

the missing button is just me being nervous,

leave the jacket open, the weather is sunny.

The shirt's aroma is just an illusion

and the PJ's require a special procedure. 
     We won't even mention the shoes.

I'm leaving tomorrow, I pitifully moan,
can't get to a store, can you rush me replacements?
Mars girl tells me there must be some confusion,
I take a deep breath in staggering amazement

Can I help you with anything else? says the clone.

To save the world, one needs proper attire,
Not remnants retrieved from J.Crew's sub-basement,
And I bang down the phone with elaborate curses
That aren't fit for these family verses

but constitute a terrifying malediction

wishing down on their heads consequences most dire.

As in, you should have to wear those dirty worn mis-sized shoes!