What are Virgo men like? Finally, some answers!
To give you an idea of what Virgo men are like, when I was much younger my mother would drag me to the shops to buy me clothes. I hated it because all we seemed to do was wait around for assistance and then wait even longer to pay. Not much has changed now that I’m an adult – The waiting, not shopping with my mum. What’s the longest you’ve waited in line to try clothes on in a shop? 5? 10? 15 minutes?
Regardless of how long, as Virgos you probably convinced yourself that it’s the correct and sensible thing to do. The logic being that it’ll save you a lot of time and distress rather than having to go back and return them. Sadly, and more often than not, this is wrong. You either love to shop or hate to wait.
A big fan of shopping was the American entrepreneur, Tammy Faye Bakker, who famously said, “I always say shopping is cheaper than a psychiatrist.”
I on the other hand agree with Alan Bush who said, “In almost every survey of consumers, they say they don’t mind spending money. What they hate is the shopping experience.” – Earlier this week this Virgo Man was most definitely one of those consumers, as I found myself in a vibrant and trendy clothes shop determined to buy a few shirts for some upcoming events.
The first thing that struck me was the mess as I made my way through the piles of clothes strewn on the floor. People’s psyche changes immensely when there’s a Sale on. We’ve all done it. We find ourselves holding a piece of clothing up, inspect it, and if we don’t like it simply throw it down in disgust as if it was offending us in some way. We’d never do this if it wasn’t on offer.
Eventually I managed to find a couple of shirts I liked. Brilliant. The only problem being I wasn’t sure about the size because a Large in one shop, can easily be a Small Tight Fitting shirt in another. Not so brilliant.
OK, so I made my way to the fitting rooms to be greeted by a queue of about 7 people. That’s fine. I was prepared to wait. Eventually, after what seemed like half an hour but was probably only about 7 minutes, I made my way to the front and that’s when my Virgo mind sprung to life.
I could see the grubby little men’s cubicles in front me that I’d never been fond of. Interestingly though, I’ve always harboured this adolescent dream that the women’s equivalent was a beautiful harmonious experience. I imagine the women as they get down to their scantily underwear unashamedly asking their friends to squeeze in to the little cubicles and give their opinion on the clothes they’re trying, as their bodies move against each other in the tiny little rooms. Beads of sweat beginning to roll down her voluptuous….. OOPS! Got carried away again. Anyway, you see what I’m getting at.
As I waited I was confronted by the guy responsible for letting people in and out of the cubicles. I couldn’t figure out whether he really hated his job, or he was trying to act the, ‘I’m too cool to look bothered’ look. He was so groomed and accessorized I don’t think his style had even been invented yet. But that didn’t put me off. I was at the front of the queue and nothing else could get in the way of a quick getaway.
Suddenly it happened. A curtain ruffled from one of the cubicles and out came…The Thing.
The Thing, was a white male, approximately 40 years old, 290 pounds and perspired so much he left a trail of sweat behind him. As he walked/dripped past me I was then reminded that with perspiration comes a smell, and not usually a pleasant one at that.
I look up and for the first time whilst in the queue, I see Mr Trendy Fitting-Room Guy smile and usher me towards him. Oh no. God, pleasedon’t let me go into the room where The Thing came from, I think to myself.
But alas, God lets me down this time because Mr Trendy Fitting-Room Guynow begins to act very official and professional. He asks me how many items of clothing I’m taking in. “Two,” I say. He looks me up and down with a suspicious look on his face, and I begin to feel as if I’m at passport control and the immigration officer won’t let me pass. But then the ludicrous reality of the situation quickly hits me when he hands me a bright orange colored, round piece of plastic with the number 2 written on. Really classy.
I slowly make my way to the cubicle like a man on death row. As I enter I can still see the sweaty footprints The Thing left behind along with his distinctive odour. I hold my breath and take off my top so quickly I feel as if I’m in one of those wacky Japanese game shows. Of course all the hooks are broken or missing, therefore I have to place my top near The Things footprints. I try the shirts on and swing my head round to all the differently angled mirrors so I can see what they look like on from behind, getting dizzy and faint in the process. Success. They both fitted perfectly.
I quickly change back into my top, rush out of there and hand back the stupid piece of orange plastic to Mr Trendy Fitting-Room Guy. He doesn’t even acknowledge me, but that’s fine by me. I head towards the cashier to pay. There’s a queue, but at least I don’t have to choose whether to breathe or not. I eventually paid and exit the building.
As I stood outside the store clutching my new shirts, I thought back to shopping with my mum. Things WERE different. My mum would make all the decisions. The only stress I’d had was having to decide the flavour of the ice-cream I was promised if I managed to behave in the store. Suddenly, shopping with mum doesn’t seem like such a bad idea now.