Yep, this post is called “Clothes”. So this might be too much of a superficial and frivolous post for you. It’s OK, though. Some girls just really like shopping . . . a lot. Like me, for example.
There’s just something about shopping . . . when it’s done right. For me, that would mean going alone (or with an incredibly patient friend) to a shop with nice things (that are on super sale, of course) that seem like they were all especially made for you. So much so, that you take multiple trips to the fitting room. You then end up at the register with perfect pieces (even if it’s just one or two articles) of clothing that make you feel and look, just, great — slim, feminine, pretty, hot, etc. There’s nothing like that moment — it’s like you’ve just arrived home from winning a battle or something. So on this Wednesday, since it’s been awhile since my last successful and extensive shopping trip, I fantasize about this — a good shopping trip.
Just bear with me, OK?
You finally decide to go shopping. After weeks of putting it off, it’s time. As much as you love clothing and putting together outfits, the last few shopping trips have been so horrendously awful (long lines, few deals, not-quite-right clothing), that you’ve kind of already waved the white flag. At whom? — well, you’re not quite sure. But either way, it’s gotten too frustrating. Ahh, the perils of being a sometimes-vain girl.
You consider your funds and, well, your desires. “I start that new job soon. I need nice, office-appropriate clothing, that’s also just really cute.” Super-specific, I know.
You start at the outdoor mall. It’s a nice day, so why not? You’re by yourself, so you don’t have to worry about a time limit or entertaining someone (I always like to make sure everyone’s having a good time — I’m a mom like that). You wonder why there aren’t many people at the stores, since parking is plentiful. “Weird.” you say to yourself.
You gravitate toward that store. You know the one. The one that carries gorgeous pieces of feminine and subtly sexy clothing that you can’t afford (That would be Anthropologie for me). You tease yourself by going in anyway, using the excuse of: “Well I guess I can just try stuff on.”
Your arms are soon laden with those treacherous pieces of fabric. You approach the dressing rooms. More like walking the plank, you think. The girl that mans the dressing rooms gives you the once over with her over-done, spidery-lashed eyes, wearing more-than-half of the merchandise she is folding and hanging. It seems that she has already deemed herself better than you; you see it in her eyes. You secretly wish that you hadn’t worn those old leggings and flip-flops that day.
She asks very disinterestedly, “How many items?” You smile politely and struggle to count the number of items. “Why didn’t I do this while I was waiting in line?” You have four dresses, three shirts, and four pairs of pants. “Eleven? OK, take three off. You’re only allowed eight items in the dressing room.” You sigh pretty audibly because it’s just such a pain to ask for those additional items while you’re in your bra and underwear just staring at the jumble of clothes you’ve tried on so far.
Like always, you have two sizes of the same thing — just because you have no idea if the recent daily running/jogging sessions have done anything to minimize your waistline. It doesn’t help that you had a bigger-than-usual breakfast that morning.
So, you try on the pants first — the smaller size first (Dun Dun Dun). “Pants . . .” you think, “Please fit, pants. I need you for work. Jeans aren’t allowed.” Alas, they’re too tight. “Zero isn’t a size anyway,” you bitterly think to yourself as you shimmy out of them. And of course, the bigger size is too loose and about six inches too long. Ah, the perils of being 5’0’’.
You try to psyche yourself up for the dresses. Luckily enough, Big Sean’s “Dance” (you know you love it) starts playing in the store (why this crass (ha ha) song would be playing in a respectable establishment like Anthro, I don’t know. I told you to bear with me.). As your hips move to the repetitive beat, you assuredly say to yourself as you look at the rack of dresses, “Let’s do this.”
The dresses fit in all the right places. A bright, but not-too-bright, jewel-toned wrap dress that skims your curves, and isn’t too low-cut. Perfect with tights for work, you think. A long-sleeved body-conscious black-and-grey striped dress with a ruffled hem. It hits you mid-calf and miraculously doesn’t cut you off. Soooo “Mad Men”, you think. One that looks like a burlap sack at first, then, once you improvise with your belt, it becomes something a Hollywood starlet would wear. Yes! Your hips emphatically move as you do a victory dance. Ahh, and the last one is just a beaut — a not-too-short black number with delicate lacy fluttery sleeves. You feel like a queen — a hot queen — Beyoncé-style, “We Run the World”-style.
You slide back into your old clothes, feeling a bit cheap, noticing that the leggings you wore are actually really old. You slide on your flip-flops, saunter out of the dressing room, and place the shirts and pants on the long rack. You proudly strut up to the register and you smile broadly at the young woman with the immaculate and sleek updo. You throw down your dresses and notice that they’ve all been marked down from three figures to a very low two figures (this is a fantasy, after all). She smiles and confides, “Wow, what a great haul.”
And you smile back. “Oh, yes. I know.”
To make this even more fantasy-like, let’s say Beyoncé’s “We Run the World” plays right as you make your way out of the shop.