Yes, I am Female and I HATE Clothes Shopping!

I know, I know…I am quite atypical. Most men picture their girlfriends or just women in general, swooning over some skirt, overpriced shoes, handbag, bathing suit, jeans, or whatever else they find themselves holding up and admiring before happily skipping to the dressing room as they giggle and prance around taking in what the mirror holds. Yes, for most women clothes shopping may be a source of fun, tension relief, way to channel their inner Diva, whatever, but for me, it’s always been excruciatingly painful. Please spare me the body image chat because although I know having confidence and pride in the way we look on the outside does make clothes shopping somewhat easier, if you hate it growing up, odds are you’re always gonna hate it. Even at my very fittest ever, I have NEVER enjoyed shopping for myself. I would always find myself going with friends that enjoyed shopping and they would pick the clothes for me. If I tried them on and I didn’t look like a potato sack or a hooker, then I would just get them and call it a day.

I believe this neurosis began when I was quite young. My aunts would visit and spend countless hours bargain shopping on 14th Street. We’d cover all the way from 8th Avenue to May’s department store (for those of you that still remember that). In between, they would search through every bin, every rack, and if the price wasn’t right, haggle to lower it. I was left to carry and watch the shopping bags, and/or hold the stuff they were going to buy in this particular store. It took hours upon hours to get through this bargain hunting marathon. It was slow and unusual torture for a youngster. I have a memory of getting lost in one of the stores once because I was hiding in the racks…tell me, what kid hasn’t done this? The store staff called the cops and I recall them asking me for my phone number and address. I remember the police officer carried me off the store counter as they escorted me to the police car. I must have been about 4 or 5 years old and after a brief phone call, I was taken home.

When I was that same age, I was a skinny kid with really long hair that wouldn’t eat anything but Lipton soup. As I grew older and discovered TV, soda, and candy bars, I became overweight and would hear all the women in my family criticize my body whenever I changed in front of them. I began to seek privacy whenever I needed to change my clothes so I wouldn't hear how hideous and imperfect my body was developing, but by then, the damage was already done. I had begun to hate my own body. This, and the torturously long shopping trips made me absolutely detest clothes shopping. I never believed anything ever looked good on me and the fitting rooms were like torture chambers showing you every imperfection you have anywhere on your body in bright ass fluorescent lights. At least today, fitting rooms have doors on them and each one is private. When I was growing up, they were rooms which were completely open or in the upscale stores they were semi-private, basically separate stalls with mirriors and without doors. This made me love shopping even more than I already did.

Today, I power shop. I go in and know exactly what I need. I can’t be bothered trying to match this article to that one. I must say the already assembled mannequins are a great help. They cut my job right in half; all I have to worry about is the right size and that’s a whole other issue unto itself. OK, so I can’t buy any jeans if they are not from the Gap. For some reason, other jean makers cannot fathom women may have some protruding buttocks and hips. No, my body shape is not like a prepubescent boy’s. I make no apologies for this now. I am a woman and a voloptuous one at that, and there is nothing wrong with that. I realize this now.

Many times in life, I have been in that weird state bordering on too large for regular stores, which only carry up to a size 12, yet undersized for the Lane Bryant, Ashley Stewart category. This did nothing but to intensify my strongly established aversion even more. I wish that the designers at the overweight woman stores throughout the country would realize that not all their market targets have a minimum DD cup size. Just because you are big around the waist does not mean you will have a huge rack to boot.

Last night, I went to Macy’s to buy some work clothes. I have lost enough weight lately as to warrant this emergency shopping trip. All my current clothes were so large I had to wear 2 safety pins on each side of the waist and pleat the fabric to try to get them to look somewhat normal on me. I was looking sloppy and disshelved no matter what I chose to wear. Walking throughout Macy’s I realized too much selection is not a blessing. I walked around the floor for a minimum of 2 laps. I saw some things I might consider, but knew I really needed work pants. I wasn’t sure as to my actual size so I knew I had to try stuff on. Oh, for heaven’s sake…why?

Maybe if I just hold the pants against my hips and visually guesstimate. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I was then advised to go try the pants on and to a certain degree, I am glad I did. First of all, I discovered beige is not a good color for pants for women with anything but perfect thighs and a rock hard, sculpted bottom. If that’s not you, please pass up the beige, khaki or camel color line. Sorry, it’s not for you just as it’s also not for me. I can accept this now and so should you. I was also able to gauge my actual pant size and realized that the pants I had chosen were actually form fitting spandexy type deals as opposed to a more relaxed fit I thought they were from visually inspecting them at the onset.

So what did I do next? I went to the same exact rack and picked up the same exact pants in every color they had in my size besides that darned very unflattering beige color. Why? No need to try anything else on :)…what could be better? Then, we moved onto tops. So I chose my old size which fit ok. Yes, I pulled the blouse over the sweater I was wearing and yes, I did stand in front of the mirror between the aisles. I refused to go back to the ‘torture chamber’ and I could still see how it fit. I did try on a smaller size, just in case. Ok, ok, so the smaller size fit better so I went with that.

By now, I was at the register, I had made it through the shopping fiasco. It wasn’t absolutely horrible, but it wasn’t fun by a longshot, either. I can’t see myself going back for several months at least. I guess until the clothes I just got fit me just as loose and unkempt as the ones I needed to replace in the first place. In the meantime, I will continue to keep my uninhibited hate for clothes shopping under wraps.