A Tourist in the Land of Vera

Every so often I do something that I think will prove that I am hip and in style, not that I generally care about such things, but I do have my moments. As usual, Hubby believes these forays prove that I am prone to moments of severe insanity. He has long since stopped pointing this out to me until I ask him what could have possibly made me think this was a good idea.

So it was on Thursday I set out for Ft Wayne, Indiana and the annual Vera Bradley Outlet Sale. I had my Christmas list. I was in a good mood. I was feeling adventurous. I had my iPod loaded with some cool stuff. The weather was great.

Things began to go bad just north of Indianapolis. I looked at my Mapquest and realized that the trip was three and a half hours one way - not three - meaning it was a seven hour round trip. Then it dawned on me that I had listened to most of the good stuff I had downloaded to my iPod and would have slim pickings on the way back. When I arrived at the location for the sale, parking was cash or check only and I had neither, having forgotten to get a few bucks out of the ATM before I left. This is when I learned that people in Indiana must keep their money under their mattress, because I only found one ATM anywhere near the venue.

A greater pessimist would have just bagged it then, but I am stubborn. I had not driven all that way to not bag my elk, as it were. Like the ancient Spartans, I was returning on my shield or carrying it, although I did believe that the on it option seemed more likely at this point.

I parked my car using my dad’s method for triangulating car location in a poorly marked parking lot so I could find my car when it was time to escape. I walked to the convention center against a tide of women dragging giant shopping bags, some using the assistance of carts or dollies. This was my first indication that perhaps I was a bit clueless when it came to the Vera Bradley Outlet Sale.

I will take this opportunity to mention that while I own a couple of Vera Bradley bags, I don’t carry Vera Bradley bags exclusively. I don’t even know the names of the patterns I like. I am a Very Bradley amateur. This fact would become painfully obvious when I crossed the threshold into the sale.

Two steps in, I realized I was in my version of hell. Seriously. I am not comfortable in mass shopping frenzies. I am not comfortable surrounded by people who are driven to find that one item they are missing in a collection. I am not comfortable surrounded by people who are so driven to find that one item they are missing in a collection that they are willing to trample small children, leave their own children crying and alone in the stroller, pole vault, slide face first, or start hysterically bargaining with another shopper to get what they want. I was completely out of my league and I knew it. The best I could do was to get out my list, dive in and pray not to drown.

I survived the experience. I got something for everyone on my list. I found my car without any problems, much to the surprise of some geezettes who had no idea where they had parked. (I thanked my dad later for teaching me this skill. I did not reveal the secret.)

I will say, however, this trip was a learning experience. I learned that certain objects outside of yarn and fiber engender a cult following that the rank amateur cannot understand. I am humbled, awed, and a little creeped out by the devotion Miss Vera inspires. I learned that in Indiana you stop where there is a gas station regardless of how psycho-killer friendly it looks on the outside to avoid severe brain and sphincter damage. Let’s just say that it is difficult to drive when all brain cells are devoted to certain muscle control due to the lack of a Depends. I learned that seven hours in a car requires immediate treatment with a hot shower and Ben Gay.

Most of all, I learned I am so not hip or in style.