I went shopping for jeans the other day in a department store. I hate shopping for jeans (like most women I suspect) so I have a system whereby I just grab what I think is my size in ten different styles and bring them all to the dressing room at once.
So I'm in the dressing room and I've got one leg into my fourth pair when I realize they're dirty. Like grass-stained dirty. I pull them off and look at them. They're not a brand that the store carries. And they're worn out. Someone has clearly brought whatever pair was on the hanger into the dressing room, put their old gross jeans back on the hanger, returned those to the rack, and walked out in the new ones.
All I could think about was washing my hands. I can't remember, but I may have handled the crotch of those jeans. The crotch.
*shudders in corner*
So I'm in the dressing room and I've got one leg into my fourth pair when I realize they're dirty. Like grass-stained dirty. I pull them off and look at them. They're not a brand that the store carries. And they're worn out. Someone has clearly brought whatever pair was on the hanger into the dressing room, put their old gross jeans back on the hanger, returned those to the rack, and walked out in the new ones.
All I could think about was washing my hands. I can't remember, but I may have handled the crotch of those jeans. The crotch.
*shudders in corner*





treatment before too many helpless employees were forced to handle them.

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