I’m on the prowl, like a terrier hunting an unknowing squirrel. I shuffle between the racks of Lululemon clothes and blissful shoppers. I am not here to shop. I am here to take inventory. I mentally note the colors of the leggings and the patterns, designs and styles of the shirts. After committing such details to my long-term memory I leave the store. I am ready.

The straw straps imprint upon my skin, while my arm muscles are weighted down by the Outlet shopping bags. This is a feeling I know well, too well. My mother, my partner in crime, is besides me as we near the Lululemon outlet store. My right hand grasps onto the half-circled door handle and I pull the door ajar—it’s go time. Upon entering the store, I remain calm, at least externally. My eyes immediately begin to scan the store, looking for the colors, patterns, and designs I had noted at the Lululemon store in our mall. I smile at the employee who had greeted my mother and I on entering. I shut my eyes, inhale deeply, and continue further into the abyss of clothes. …show more content…
Though small, the Woodbury Commons Lululemon outlet store is packed: hangers, baskets, and tables—All filled with clothes. All filled with opportunity. I filter through the racks, grabbing only the items I had seen in the mall. Size does not matter. Sometimes color does not matter. The patterns or designs of the clothes are the determinant factors. My arms are draped with clothes—ugly leggings that I would never be caught wearing, shirts so big, that would only fit me if I were pregnant with triplets. But this does not matter. The cashier smiles, but her brow betrays her—my purchases puzzle her. Before she begins to ring me up, she says, “You know—all items are final sale here”. I respond with a nod and try to cover my grin. She