I went for a long walk over the lunch hour and stopped in at a designer sample sale. I was a little heat damaged and allowed myself to be seduced by the chartreuse and magenta silks and satins in the window; lured by the mod prints and promise of discounts; beckoned by the air conditioning blasting through the open doorway and cooling my cheeks.
Lines and lines of rolling racks! Sorted by size! I scooped up some lovely satin camis and dresses that looked vaguely wide enough for my ass, reminding myself that in fashion, 12 is the new 14. As a precaution I quickly grabbed some clothes off the maternity rack. I was shaking a little, feeling as if I wasn't supposed to be there, trying not to look at the women around me with their designer rodeo belts.
The line to the dressing room was snaking longer and longer so I hopped on. Someone was inside howling like a square-dance caller. "Next on line!" (me: "You'll look fine!") I ducked in. It was a big space cordoned off with tarp. The woman who had called was beckoning me toward a spot she had staked out in-between 2 bronzed cokehead debutantes. Maybe they were PR assistants. Soon, without being obtrusive, I would come to wonder how neither of them had tan lines on their tits.
You know, size "large" is a curious thing. Larger than . . . a rabbit? A badger? Surely not larger than me. One of the camis fit. It was a gorgeous baby blue with black lace. There was a stretchy silk dress that was cool, but too snug even for this slut: what's the purpose of going couture if you're going to hoe it up anyway? Nothing else, save the wrap dress, even fit over my head.
This all took a very long time: Tangling and untangling my hair out of the dress, bending over looking for armholes, shaking the dress off over my head, making sure I really was putting my arms in the right place, taking a humiliation break, trying again.
I had fantasized about owning one of these holy grail wrap dresses for a very long time, and it looked nice, but I let it go. I wasn't in love with the pattern.
1 comment:
The whole phenomenon of sizes is such a mess. I remember a pair of jeans I tried on from a trusted merchant at the height of the low-rider craze. They did not make it even halfway up my ass. Talk about crack whore!
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