So I had this sweet coupon for the GAP that entitled me to 30% off everything. EVERYTHING. So I went to the GAP on Michigan Avenue with Jon after work on a Friday, which was the worst idea I’ve had in a long time. It was chock full of suburbanites and Southerners from out of town, crowding all the sweaters and agonizing over jeans. So JW and and I tried on a couple of things and got out of there. I even walked out with free jeans, since the checkout lady forgot to ring them up (which almost makes up for the hives I got from being in such close proximity to all those people).
I was unsatisfied. And the coupon was re-useable.
The next thing I know, it’s Saturday afternoon and JW is at the gym while I clean for awhile. When I was finished, I started browsing the GAP website, filling my virtual cart with more jeans and a sweater. I threw in a couple of pairs of jeans for JW for Christmas, typed in my promo code, hit enter, and voila! Great savings headed my way.
Now, those of you who know me well know that I am obsessed with tracking packages. It’s seriously one of my favorite things to do–I love to know when something is “out for delivery.” So Monday I happily go to UPS.com and enter in my tracking number–who knows how close I am to receiving my new goods?? However, when I track them, disaster strikes. By accident, the jeans got sent to my old address. Shit. It’s okay, I tell myself. You will just track the shit out of these jeans until you notice they say “Delivered” and then go to the old building and get them. Packages used to go for months unnoticed there, laying in the lobby unclaimed. Plus, I know just how to throw my body into the door to get it to open when it’s locked. This will be fine.
Except last night when I spied it had been delivered, it was not fine. I trekked the three extra blocks over to the old apartment and opened the door (it was open when I got there–I didn’t even have to crash into it) and was greeted with an empty lobby. Seriously? I once saw a Jcrew package sit there through the entirety of a season without anyone touching it. Who the hell would want both the shortest jeans on earth and the tallest jeans all at once? No one. I sighed loudly and walked back out the door, ready to claim defeat.
And then that nagging voice came at me. Why don’t you just go knock on the door and see if the new renters got it by accident? That’s easy enough.
Precursor: When we moved out of the place, there was trash, an army of dust bunnies, and (this is hard to admit) food in the fridge. All of which we fully intended upon coming back and getting rid of…except that when we drove by, someone was moving in. Instead of going in and shamefully admitting that we were not done, we didn’t stop and left the apartment behind forever. Which probably rendered us the biggest scumbags of all time to the new girls. But this didn’t matter, since we would never have to see them again.
Except now I had to go knock on their door. I stood in the cold for a minute, trying to decide if I should just admit this as karma and go home, but I couldn’t.
So I knocked. And was greeted by a girl wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt at five-thirty, sporting lots of makeup, eyeliner in particular. She also had Big-10 goods everywhere, including a sign on her door and the sweatshirt on her back. Great. I asked her if she had seen my package, which of course she had not. She took my name down on her whiteboard (I am sure this was a leftover from her college dorm) as I tried to sneak peeks at the home that was. She assured me that she would let me know if she saw my package. I doubted this.
I also attempted to make it sound like I had not been the previous inhabitor of the apartment, but that failed miserably. It went like this:
Me: Hi! My name is Nikki and I had a package sent here by mistake. It’s an old address (said in a voice meant to convey I lived here one decade ago).
Her: Oh, okay. I haven’t seen it, but let me take your number.
Her: So you lived here last?
Me: (stuttering). Yeahhh, I did.
Her: (scathing look) Oh.
It didn’t get better. I then thanked her again, walked out of the door, and vowed to never leave condiments and lettuce in the fridge close to the end of a lease again. I’m pretty sure I’ll never see those jeans.
However, the story has a happy ending. GAP is sending me new jeans (minus one pair they didn’t have anymore) free of charge and mailing them to the office. Where I know no one in sweatpants and excessive eyeliner will get their paws on them.