We all know by now that I am a bit anxiety ridden, particularly at the mall. I shop approximately two times a year. Once for winter clothing. Once for fall clothing. The last time I ventured into a shopping situation I practically urinated on the floor of the Gap.
Fashion is great. I think. Maybe.
It’s just that I find the process of dressing a body that is genetically built to be in Eastern Europe picking potatoes a bit challenging.
Where is the catalog for my body type?
Today it was about 90 degrees in Portland. The heat, combined with a lovely gift card sent by the in-laws with the message: Keep being your own kind of beautiful! (hmm) landed me in the Gap.
I was awkwardly trying to pull a t-shirt from the middle of a meticulously folded stack of blue t-shirts when a denim clad boy approached me
with a stun gun.
Hi! Can I help you find anything?
OH goodness so sorry I just messed up your folding I’m not sure what I want so I’ll just browse, I muttered awkwardly while shaking off the desire to cling to his leg and weep while being dragged around the store.
I then scurried off to the closest wall, grabbed one pair of shorts in two sizes, a handful of shirts in three different sizes and a variety of colors, and a
mumu kaftan maxi dress with weird stripes. Keeping a low profile, I entered a dressing room.
With the door closed securely behind me I stripped down to my underwear and started grooving to the Black Eyed Peas.
It was then that I was blinded by a deadly trifecta: bright lights, a full-length mirror, and a lumpy white figure doing The Sprinkler with sad breasts swinging side to side.
Jesus Mary and Josephina Marion Horowitz!
There I was, face to face with what can only be described a disaster of epic proportions: The Pale Unexercised & Unexamined Winter Body.
I wanted to avert my eyes, but there was no avoiding what was before me.
I took it all in.
The feet. Heels callused, cracking. Red toenail polish chipped and flaking.
Two impressively long leg hairs above my ankle. Shaved legs, white with bumpy red patches. One greenish blue bruise on a shin.
One shaven armpit. One hairy armpit.
The whole picture: barbaric.
What the? I’m supposed to put this mess in summer clothes?
It was then that I decided that malls should come equipped with social workers to guide people through this process. Or at the very least someone should be handing out tranquilizers.
As I walked back to my car (with a pair of oddly fitting boyfriend denim shorts and two of t-shirts), I decided that though, yes, the old gal can use a tune-up, it’s not my body that’s the problem it’s the fucking clothes. I’m just living in the wrong era.
I could totally rock a peplos or a chiton.