I go into Kohl's department store once every year, around the same time. It is always a day or two before departing for school that year, whatever year and whatever school that might be. I go once a year for two reasons:
1) I can't bear to let myself shop there more than once every twelve months, as my credibility (and little parts of my soul) slips away with each lingering moment spent inside.
2) I need underwear. I'm not a Kohl's shopper, and -- as mentioned only two sentences previous -- I generally avoid it like the plague. But I'm not so stupid as to buy exclusively name brand underwear; Hanes does it for me. So each year I walk meekly into Kohls, avoiding eye contact as much as possible, and head for the underwear racks to stock up on fresh undergarments for the coming year. My annual haul usually is in the range of $50, and each time I walk out sheepish but satisfied, knowing that I won't have to return for another several months, at least.
This has become my annual ritual, and, since I generally put it off for as long as possible, it is the bell lap for my impending departure. For me, depart and department store go hand in hand.
So today I went into Kohl's to pay them their yearly fee, and walked out eight pairs of underwear, six pairs of socks, and three undershirts richer. I only overheard one conversation about food stamps, to boot. Today's visit was no different than any other, excepting the fact that I know this year's departure is of a more novel sort than my others. Less than four hours from now, I'll be boarding my flight for Copenhagen, Denmark, via Reykjavik, Iceland (land of Bjork, geothermal power, and most importantly, Sigur Ros) to begin my four month experiment on foreign shores. I am excited, mostly; nervous, suddenly; and in general, waiting in keen anticipation of my ever-approaching trip.
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