Having a pear shaped body makes finding clothes online that actually fit a really hard task. With a full time job as a people pleaser -er- I mean waitress, I barely have time to go to the mall. The idea of having to take my clothes off in a tiny room with a dirty mirror gives me the creeps but it’s something I have to do. Anxiety overcomes my body as I hear footsteps getting louder and louder. Suddenly, a violent knock on the door. “Ocupado,” a word I was ready to spit out as soon as I got in the fitting room is heard in the short hallway with black-stained walls. Seriously, how much can a paint job cost?
I hear people mumbling, obviously complaining about how long people take to try on clothes. I remind myself that some decisions can’t be rushed when there’s a huge gap between my back and a pair of skinny jeans. Big booty / small waist problems. I slip on a smaller pair but they don’t make it past my thighs.
“Size up and tailor down.” All of a sudden, Stacy London pops up in my head. I remember What Not to Wear. Would Stacy and and Clinton be ok with these $55 jeans? I grab a leg and pull on both sides to test for stretch. A two inch difference is not enough.
“Miss, are you ok in there?” How long had it been?
“I’m fine.” Ugh, I had to hurry. Maybe if I squeezed my ass enough I could forcibly pull up the 25″ waist jeans. I did a little dance, I jumped a bit and I was starting to sweat. I reached my thighs and prepared for the moment of truth. Squeeze and pull. Squeeze and pull. Squeeze and… rip. I felt my eyes get big when I heard the dreadful noise of stitches coming undone. My fashion design professor would be so ashamed of me. What would a pre-“Fancy” Iggy Azalea do? A knock interrupted my thinking.
“Yes! I’m almost done. Jeez.”
I took both jeans and decided to buy the 26″ ones. $55 and I had to tailor them? Bummer. But there was nothing else I could do. I opened the door and the angsty teen already had his arm extended.
“Oh, um, I’m taking both.” He rolled his eyes and led the next lady towards the dressing room. As I walked past the long line, I felt eyes of judgement on me. Did they know? Did they hear? I scoured the store for the perfect spot to dump the wounded jeans. I figured camouflaging them would be best. I looked for one of those neatly stacked tower of jeans and stuffed them between size 25 of undamaged goods. This was evidence I needed to get rid of. I walked away with quick feet with my eyes on the counter. I was already reaching for my purse when I heard someone sigh in frustration. I looked over my shoulder and saw an employee down on his knees surrounded by a sea of denim. The jeans had fallen like poorly stacked Jenga tower.
“Next!” It was my turn and I panicked.
“I tried these on and decided I don’t want them.” I left the jeans at the counter and ran.
To be continued…