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Sports Authority: Shopping Incognito
The more out of shape I am, the more likely to shop at a large corporate store like Sports Authority where no one is likely to ask me about my exercise habits because no one is likely to see me, despite my weight being up five pounds or more. The more out of shape I am, the more I feel like an imposter/profligate when I buy hundred-dollar running shoes, and therefore wish to remain anonymous. I need not worry: no one who works at Sports Authority, even if they happen to step within a quarter-mile radius, is going to try to help me unless I have tears in my eyes or appear to be suffocating. It’s not their style to pry. I did once see an actual salesperson reunite a crying child with his fit mother over in waterproof socks. It was nice and reminded me to keep my emotions in check as I shop.
In case I might get distracted on my way to Sports Authority and opt for a cute dress shop or something good, I wear unflattering athletic duds when I go there: silver Lycra tights, marshmallow-thick Sauconys purchased on my last mission to Sports Authority, and a vintage t-shirt from a half-marathon in Death Valley, run not by me but by my superhuman college roommate Parker in the 90s. I also consider a trip to the retail warehouse an endurance event—the store is the size of a stadium and I get winded easily.
Sports Authority stocks a great deal of enticing merchandise, most of which a person like me, who works out three to four days a month in order to squeeze in skinny jeans, does not require. Still, the more out of shape I am, the more I believe that buying a hydration pack will change my life. We should all drink more water and why not keep your water in a yellow belt around your middle? If nothing else, the shame ought to propel you to guzzle and remove. Without a salesperson to guide me, I feel comfortable buying at will. I roll the sleeves of my marathon T. My adrenaline spikes, and I pile my hand cart with bounty: Adidas ankle pants that appear to function like a long girdle, a Brooks “Nightlife” reflective vest, in case I get inspired to run in the evening or take a dark walk to the brewpub, expensive gel in soles, just in case, and finally Nike’s majestically titled Air Alvord IV running shoes, perhaps named for a corpulent matriarch, seem the pair for me. If not, I know I’m not going to wear them much anyway.
As the cashier rings me up, I notice how slim her waist, and how very darling her patent-red running shoes. I try to sound athletic as I ask her, “Where did you get those trainers?” She lowers her face and whispers, “Charm City Run—they are so helpful there.” I take my bag of goodies and jog like a champion to the car—that’s enough cardio for one day. If I wanted to work out, I certainly wouldn’t shop here.