Wednesday, October 20, 2010

A Fashion Dead End

Now that I have some time to myself during the day, several people have said things like "Ooooh! You have tons of time to go shopping now! You can go to the mall by yourself! You'll be able to go shopping every day!" These people obviously don't know me at all, since for me, having to shop everyday would be the equivalent of being subjected to waterboarding. Or being that guy that gets trampled in the first five minutes during the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. Or having to walk across the Sahara with only a juice box and no cell phone service.

Unfortunately, though, trends come and go, seasons change and my damn kids continue to grow, which means that occasionally I find myself having to shop. And since I can't get everything done online (believe me, I've tried), I occasionally have to go into actual stores where actual people work. People that say things like "Are you enjoying the beautiful weather? What else are you going to do with your day? Do you need a gift receipt? Oooh, I just love these tops! How is your morning going? Would you like to save 10% and apply for a store credit card? Sorry, we're all out of that size but I could check another store that's 57 miles away! Would you like the receipt with you or in the bag?" I'm still waiting for a salesperson to say what I'm really thinking, which is "Would you like to slap me in the face and tell me to shut the fuck up?"

On my most recent outing I was searching for black pants for Zach, a jacket for myself and a shirt for Zoe that would be suitable for school pictures. Since shopping with something specific in mind is an entirely different level of torture, I bribed a friend with caffeine and forced her to tag along.

Store #1: No jackets to be found, except for a tweed number that wasn't even long enough to cover my bottom rib. I did find one cute pair of pants (for myself, not for Zach), but unfortunately they were designed for someone that had lower legs shaped like pipe cleaners. The tops all had ruffles, gathers, bunches, sewn on jewelry, bows, frilly shit and/or beads that resembled poppy seeds. This is exactly why I hate shopping.

Store #2: I see jackets! The first jacket I found had a weird buckle across the front, the second jacket was cut for a person that possessed negative amounts of shoulder strength, but shockingly enough, the third jacket fit, and I loved it. I almost passed out from the shock of it all. And then I wandered over to a rack of white long-sleeved shirts because, after all, a girl can never own too many white shirts. Maybe shopping isn't so bad after all.

Store #3: With the jacket checked off my list, I moved on to Zoe's shirt and pants for Zach. After browsing the contents of two racks, we determined that the girl shirts were all -- how should I say this -- designed by colorblind, tasteless, clueless morons that were obviously hell bent on dressing all young girls like hookers in training. It seemed that every shirt we found was either some freakish shade of pink, had a leopard print, was constructed of 98% lace, was freakishly short, and would have only been suitable for school pictures if she happened to attend Whore School. At least we had fun laughing at the ugliness, I managed to find pants for Zach that aren't too nerdy, and my friend and I both found cute shoes for our daughters.

Since we had some time to kill, we actually spent some time wandering around store #3 and found a couple of unexpected surprises. For the first time in a long time, shopping wasn't totally stressing me out and, thanks to my friend, I was actually having fun! And that's when I made the fatal error of checking out the men's department, thinking that I'd maybe find a shirt or something for Doug.

Hanging amidst the True Religion embellished pocket jeans, Affliction t-shirts and cruise wear was this:

So even though I've never seen my husband dress up on October 31 as anything besides himself, if he wants to dress up as an asshole in a couple weeks, I know just where to pick up his costume: Nordstrom Rack.

No comments: