They must have been talking about the circles under my eyes. Black, dark circles. When my alarm went off this morning, at 2:45 a.m., I momentarily lost touch with reality. I was a tad bit angry that something was daring to disturb the peaceful slumber to which my body had succumbed. For that brief moment I forgot. Then, realization struck: Shopping. Day after Thanksgiving. $97 GPS. I was awake.
I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to make myself presentable before Lauren came to pick me up. A glance in the mirror told me there wasn't much that fifteen minutes could fix: I looked like Quasimodo. My eyes were all puffy, which gave my face a sort of warped, deformed quality. A quick face wash and mascara application later, and my French-hunchback self was off to Greenville.
What is it about Black Friday, dear readers? Why is it that I simply can't resist it? On the outside it's nothing but disaster. Black Friday is mobs of people waiting in lines outside in the cold, who then start waiting in lines for a dressing room, who then move to waiting in lines to pay, and finally finish waiting in lines to get out of the parking lot, so they can drive to the next store and start again. Nothing about that sounds fun, but it IS.
When I sprinted through Target in my BYU hoodie, weaving through a sea of red shopping carts and agitated shoppers, I felt nothing but excitement. When I clutched that precious TomTom in my hand and knew that I had, indeed, won, I felt nothing but extreme satisfaction. And when I walked into Shoe Carnival thirty minutes later, and they handed me a $10 gift card just for walking into the store, I knew the day would be glorious. Glorious it was.
Eleven stores and eight hours later, I thought I might be dying.
I wonder how I will possibly walk tomorrow. I am exhausted.
At least I will die knowing I found some killer deals.
The good thing is I have 365 days to forget about how tiring Black Friday is, so I can savor it again next year.