Like most of my women friends, I hate to shop, even at outlets or the “Don’t you just love a bargain?” place that has covered the Cape with “made in China” kitsch.
Shopping for clothing is the worst, the absolute worst, for any woman over the age of 18. The stuff is either overpriced or poorly made, in hideous colors and styles that come in two varieties, slut or matron.
Nonetheless, I’ve read that the fastest-growing segments in retail women’s clothing are the stores and lines that cater to we women of a certain, uh, size.
I have such a loathing for clothes shopping that I haven’t set foot in ANY such store in about two years. My clothes have fit okay, or good enough, during that period, even through lifestyle changes and a fad diet or two.
Last year, through a period of uncertain employment and a hard winter with little activity, I seemed to put on some unhealthy extra pounds, the kind that look and feel like watery suet. My clothes still fit, though, and since about March, I’ve been working every weekend on two yards, the one that is home to CapeCoder and the one that I own which is home to Peter and his family.
I’ve also been very busy with work, and have been coding at client site since January. It’s been a stressful project, so I’ve been very particular about what I eat, having found that junk food and too many carbs cause dark, depressive moods.
Through all this, my pants have started to feel a little loose around the waist, and I figured it was because they were stretched-out with too much wear and lots of poor treatment from their owner. A sign that a much-hated shopping trip was in my immediate future.
Then last week I was in a client meeting and, glancing down, noticed that the bottom of my beloved chinos was completely worn. Another sign.
In addition, I have some social commitments coming up, and my women friends have suggested, kindly, that maybe I needed to do some shopping.
I would rather take out my appendix with a grapefruit spoon or knock out a tooth with an ice skate than go clothes shopping. So, it’s taken the better part of a week to summon the motivation to haul again to the outlet store I’d visited two years ago for my last set of duds.
The store seems to have changed the way sizes are shown, I guess part of a marketing strategy, where instead of “big”, you’re a “1”, “giant”, you’re a “2”, and “elephantine”, you’re an itty-bitty “3”.
So, I had to take a guess about which flavor of “woman of a certain size” I was.
After some guessing, and the assistance of a very helpful salesperson, I discovered to my amazement that in the last two years, I’ve gone down two sizes. Either that, or the clothes have gotten two sizes bigger.
I don’t “do” scales, don’t know anyone with a bathroom scale that works and, contrary to the assumption of so many spammers, I don’t constantly measure my body parts. So, I don’t know, in fact, if I’ve gotten less gigantic, or if the clothing manufacturers have gotten more generous.
Bottom (pun intended) line, though, I’ll take it, either way.