I’m having a weird shopping crisis.
Yes, yes, I know that I just went shopping two weeks ago and got shoes and a tapas shirt and a weird turquoise tank from Torrid that was surprising because I was pretty sure turquoise got convicted of grievous crimes against humanity back in the 80’s and was deported to a small European country where women named Nadia pelt it with rocks. And yet, there it is. Turquoise tank with pink flowers on it that looks very cute under a black hoodie. Who says there’s no such thing as rehabilitation? However, the thing is that had I found totally cute Weetabix clothing, I wouldn’t have been venturing into the Land of Turquoise and Ethnic Shirts With Fleetwood Mac Sleeves. I could have simply clung meekly to my standard of ironic baseball tees, boot cut jeans and black shoes with a hint of heel. But no. These were all hiding, carted off by chicks much cooler than I, savvy women with hips like yoked oxen and I presume a fetish for perfectly polished fingernails. These fashionista doppelgangers haunt me, or rather, I haunt them, always arriving in stores a few hours after they’ve stripped the shelves of anything remotely interesting. They leave behind horizontal stripes, capris with frightening scarf-like appendages and tight tees with a two-inch sleeve that look at my meaty grandma upper arms and laugh. I covet their closets, for they apparently have everything I’ve ever desired in my life. A nice pair of shoes. Black pants that sit on my ass just so. A v-neck that somehow shows enough cleavage to be interesting but not so much that I feel like a St. Pauly Girl poster.
It’s just not fair. I walk into the stores, clutching credit cards and wads of cash and supplicate myself to the racks of unimpressive clothing. ‘Look! I have money to spend! See? Money! Just have something that doesn’t remind me of vomit, ok? Or maybe just a shirt that buttons over my boobs. Or just another Dayam!Bra. Ok? Please?’ And yet, nothing. Nothing.
I’ve just spent two hours searching the internet. The bitches got to the internet too, apparently, as I’ve exhausted my normal venues. Sure, I could buy another version of my titillating black dress, perhaps in a plum or cherry (why named after fruits? I mean, aside from the obvious reason?) but truthfully, that’s just not any fun. But one day, I’ll beat those bitches at their game.
I started writing this entry earlier this week and apparently all I had to do was complain, and the world gave me the right pair of Seven jeans in exactly my size. However I’m not going to exhale until I know if I can inhale while wearing the jeans, as I have not yet tried them on. I’m afraid to, actually. I no longer trust the fashion gods. I suspect they are under the influence of Karl Lagerfeld.
Also, I did order some more cuteness from my favorite San Francisco design house (creator of the Black Dress of Hotness unveiled at the Bad Bar this March), despite claiming above that it would be no fun. But, instead of simply pushing the limits of my propriety by displaying almost-too-much cleavage, when I put on the new top, my bosoms actually fall completely out of it. Which could be considered “fun”, I guess. And with bosoms like mine, that’s a pretty impressive feat. It takes commitment, nay, raw intent to make that happen. I suspect that it’s mammogram couture. Because god knows those sheets they give you aren’t doing you any favors. Sure, cancer, schmancer! If they’re going to press my girls between two frigid plates of glass, the least they could do is attempt to make me feel pretty. So yeah, that shirt’s going back. But the ruby red cousin to the Black Dress of Hotness (this one may be christened ‘Lawdy Yes Miss Scarlett’ or maybe just ‘The Hoor’s Dress’) is going straight to my closet, where it will intimidate the hell out of my hoodie and Tinkerbell t-shirt collection.
