My normally-pasty face flushed the kind of rich red that tomatoes want in a hot summer fashion. A buzzer sounded with nasty, tattle-tale glee.
The store worker rushed over to confront the issue. Soon a puzzled frown creased his brow, as logic set in. Wasn't I entering, not leaving? People didn't shoplift before they came into a store, did they?
And as he stood, lips trying to mold the right question, I explained. Explained the way I had at Kohls.
And at Target.
And at Barnes and Noble.
(It was a busy day.)
I explained that I am The Mad Beeper. And (regrettably) I cannot be stopped.
See, this is my accessory to disruption. Or rather, something in it is, since my mysterious Beeptasticness has followed me through two entirely separate handbags.
Oh, I have turned this particular handbag inside out like a frog in seventh grade biology. I have examined its guts. I now know its polyester and vinyl soul.
I have brought in an elite team of trained security tag sniffing animals. (Okay, my cat Alice, but she's very thorough.)
And as far as I can tell, there is no special sensor lurking as a part of this bag.
Which means, I have stowaway object, plotting my perpetual, so public embarrassment. I just haven't pinned down the perp yet.
I look accusingly at my lipstick, and it pouts at the injustice.
I eye the remote control to the gate of my office, but it remains unmoved.
I try to push my cell phone's buttons, in hopes of a confession, but it drops my signals.
Somewhere, within the satin blend lining of Kathy VanZeeland pastel snickers the source of my continued humiliation. And I will find it.
Oh, I will root it out.
Until then, I can only ask that my innocent appearance continue to serve me well... that any frisking be fleeting... and if not, that the security guards be mightily cute.
