RN: And people say I'm a slob.
CP: Yes...?
RN: No, I just spent a few minutes inside the dressing room at a major American retailer, and it was such a pigsty that it made my work cubicle and its post-tornadic appearance look like a your average Walker Art Center gallery.
CP: And here I imagine you making most of your purchases within the hushed, clubby confines of a gent's dressing room at Brooks Bros. "Will sir need a repp tie or a pocket square with his sports jacket?"
RN: If only. No, we're talking major department store. There was more merch strewn about this cramped, shabby dressing room than there was out on the sales floor. No wonder I couldn't find my size. It was probably rolled up in a ball on the floor of an adjacent dressing room.
CP: Oh, I am not above picking through a pile of castoffs in those changing rooms. The search for a nice bargain heeds not the boundaries of taste or decorum.
RN: Speak for yourself. The last place I tried something on, the dressing area had a vague backroom/potential-sexual-assault vibe. Hardly the ideal environment for stripping down to one's bra and panties, so to speak.
CP: I remember when Macy's was Dayton's and I was buying the occasional suit-of-clothes. I loved the whole ritual of trying on, taking a look in the threefold mirror, and having the tailor make adjustments with that little Bordeaux cookie of chalk. It was a ritual and a rite of passage. Things have fallen off a bit since then, right?