We always go to one particular men’s store—nestled in a quaint shopping center—that is neither a chain nor accessible online. The store has everything any well-dressed man would ever need, from relaxed weekend attire to high dollar suits.
So, twice a year I go with my husband to nod approvingly at belts and shoes and shirt patterns while he twirls around the store like Julia Roberts as the salespeople shower him with silk and leather.
Everything fits. Everything looks great. Everything mixes and matches.
Ah, to be a man.
On the car ride home, his clothes packed nicely in garment bags, I silently stew in the passenger seat. Now, Jim’s an attractive man with a great body and—I’m just gonna say it—a nice ass. So it’s no surprise that clothes hang on him well and he always looks sharp.
I once thought his ease of shopping was because he only has to give the sales people three numbers (damn men’s sizing) and they could blindly hand him a pile of clothes that he wouldn’t even need to try on.
And I try not be astounded that he can get away with only two shopping trips a year because everything in his wardrobe can work year round—simply add a layer in the winter and remove it in the spring. And—this is the worst—he buys only two pairs (one black, one brown) of the same style of beautiful Italian leather shoes and he’s set. I once wore a pair of boots twice in one week and a coworker said, “Oh, those again?”
Now, as an avid shopper—well, maybe “avid” isn’t the right word, but “constant” might be—I’ve come to realize the true gender gap between men and women rests in the simple purchase of clothing.
With the advancement in online shopping—and holy hell is it down to a science—I have found myself less and less inclined to actually enter a store. In fact, I’m usually only entering a store to return an item I bought online. But then, inevitably, my eye will be caught by something shiny and I suddenly find myself in a dressing room with a pile of clothes in my size.
And in the changing room I remember why I stick to shopping online. Because no matter how much I defend my gender, and balk at unfair stereotypes, in a women’s dressing room a mirror is held up to the worst our gender can be.
And that mirror is three sided.
The changing room is where the female gender forgets its dignity. Well, that and in public restrooms. Especially at the movie theatre. Man, you have to try 10 stalls before you find a clean one. But I digress.
Women become no better than jungle animals in the changing room. Especially if they are hunting in packs.
Invariably, two females are shopping together. One is on the phone, clearly having a fight with her mother, or a credit card company, and the other is twisting and turning in the three way mirror to get a better angle on her ass.
And the conversation between them—and I never expect it to be about the Middle East—is always just shy of, if not smack dab on, embarrassing.
First Woman: “So, ok, I hate to admit this, but I loved having Mono last month because look—these are a size 2 and I think I could even go down one more. What do you think?”
Second Woman: “I mean, you could, but don’t forget period bloat. Also, try sitting in them. And hey, how’s Chris?”
First Woman: “Oh, fine. He’s hot and all…but I can do better. Do you think this makes my ass look lopsided? Oh my god, is my ass crooked?! I hate my ass!” [unnecessarily loud laughter].
Meanwhile, I’m in a stall—with a half height saloon door, my clavicles and ankles on full display—with slanted slats as the only barrier. I’ve been told no one can see in through them, but yet, I can see out.
I’ve tried to make sense of the piles of clothes I’ve brought in, and I attempt to organize them into like piles—pants, shirts, dresses—so I can try them on in a logical way. Seriously, I bring more methodology to shopping than I do to any other aspect of my life.
After a few pairs of pants, which I can only see in the one dimensional mirror in front of me (which is glowing in white light, making all my pores so visible I’m compelled to pick at them), I dare not go out in the main hall where the two hyenas have gathered to laugh about poor, dumb Chris and nonexistent ass fat.
Truly, women have to stop talking about their bodies in such an awful way because it makes it so easy for others to do the same.
So, on the twelfth round of the sales lady asking if “anything is working” (as if she had such little optimism for me), I throw a pair of pants over the dapple-light-throwing door, and ask for one size up.
“Sure thing!” she exclaims, looking at the tag. “I’ll just bring you a size—“
“Bup bup bup,” I interrupt. “No need to say it out loud. Just bring the next size up.”
“Of course!” she says. “But just to verify, you want a size—“
“Bup!” I interrupt again, the girls at the bay window of mirrors and the rest of the women in all the tiny saloons having quieted. “I trust you can figure out what size is one size bigger than what I just handed you.”
“Okay…” she says slowly. “So just go get a—”
“Just go! Bring every f*cking size if you need to!”
And I am usually victorious. Having lived in this rockin’ body for nearly two post-puberty decades, I know what will work on me (here’s a hint: it’s never gonna be a button up shirt or Capri pants). So I make my way to the cash register. I feel proud of myself for contributing to the city’s revenue. Online shopping is killing the local economy, after all. And I do always enjoy when the cashier oohs and ahhs over my purchases as if I had personally made the clothes by hand. So yes, shopping in a store is the best for everyone.
Until she starts in with the goddamn credit card pushing.
“No thanks,” I say tersely because I know what’s coming.
“Okay.” She pauses, looks at screen, eyes widening. “But you know you would save about $50 on today’s purchase.”
“Yeah, but no.”
“Okay.” Shrugs. “I mean, you could pay it off entirely tomorrow.”
“I know. And I appreciate your dedication to such a worthy cause. Now drop it.”
“Fine.” Sulks, but then revives. “Now are you a preferred shopper here?”
“I would assume so. I buy shit from you guys constantly.”
“But do you have a preferred shopper card?”
“No…” Sigh.
“Then let’s sign you up! It’s totally free!”
And by the time she turns around with the 12-page application I’ve left the store to go home, get online and buy all the same stuff I left on the counter, in front of her gaping mouth.
Screw the local economy.
The gloriousness of online shopping cannot be overstated. And in this economy, I appreciate the 17 emails a day from the GAP who so badly wants me to buy some jeans they will give me a 75% off One Day Only sale every single day of my life.
Many companies offer free shipping and easy returns so it’s more convenient for me to order online, even knowing I’ll need to return roughly 60% of whatever I get in the mail, increasing my risk of once again getting caught in the dressing room vortex.
But online shopping does have a couple of drawbacks.
One is the way in which clothes are displayed. The second is online reviewers.
Like when I tried to find new bedding. Every picture of bedding online (and in catalogues) shows beds very carefully and particularly made to look unmade. Kind of a sloppy, effortless look, much like a messy ponytail, which takes no less than an hour to create. I could never tell what a quilt would look like if it were just on a bed made normally like normal people do in normal life. Or crumpled at the foot of the bed—our weekday look—but no bedding picture would dare portray such perfection or such laziness.
Anyway, if I try to search for say, a sweater, a tired, emaciated girl with stringy hair will be wearing it while tucking only the front of it into a pair of skinny jeans. And while I never see people on the street with just a little bit of sweater tucked into painted on jeans, I really never see them biting their bottom lip in a pout. Nor do I see them jumping onto yachts or swinging from lampposts, so I have to really imagine how I would look in the sweater.
If they could show what the sweater would look like on someone who is 5’3, sitting in a fluorescent-lit office with just a hint of toddler snot on the shoulder, I could feel more confident in the purchase.
Or I could just practice my pouty look.
To combat this issue, most clothing companies provide customer reviews. And these could potentially be helpful, but mostly they are the breakdown of the female gender.
And society in general.
I’m not sure what it is about women who tend to believe their body shape—if a socially desirable one—is a point of pride. Or that they feel they have no other place outside of high school to brag about their build.
Online reviewer for a [sweater/scarf/shoes/earrings]: “I’m 5’10 and weigh 115 (mostly breast weight) and this sweater fits me perfectly. But size down if you’re super skinny like me.”
So the review section is filled with women who aren’t really wanting to help other women decide if the teal cardigan will pill after washing. They are simply there to brag about their measurements and complain when hems are too long and wool is too scratchy.
The only other reviews available are “it can be dressed up or dressed down.” Yeah, no shit. Everything can.
Between the histrionics in the women’s dressing room, and the shameful bragging of female reviewers, it’s hard to not feel extreme anger at my male partner, sitting beside me having spent 30 painless minutes being pampered and fitted for a stack of clothes that all look good and none that make his ass look lopsided.
And yet I wonder if Jim is as pleased by his bi-annual purchases as I am when I trudge through 68 online reviews, make a decision, use an emailed coupon, get the purchase delivered to my front door, find it’s too big, take it to the store, try on a new size in a western bar, find it fits, take the mail order version to the cash register and exchange it for the right size, avoid eye contact and another credit card, and make it out of the store without losing my self confidence or saying one bad thing about my ass.
But when I look at him sitting next to me, driving us home, he looks like something I know I’ll never be:
A satisfied customer.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.