For those of you who were surprised at the title of this post, I suggest you read it again.
My first trip to New York City looms in the not too distant future, and I’ve been doing a lot of shopping in the last two days. So, this post will be a mixture of my thoughts on that. And yes, I can tie this into writing. I call it research.
I have been many sizes in my life. When I married oh-so-many years ago, I weighed 102 pounds. Let’s just say, I do not weigh that now. Then again, I wouldn’t want to weigh that now because surely I’d be dying … or dead. How much does a skeleton weigh? Whatever. I was heading somewhere with this … oh, yes. I seem to be cursed. No matter what I weigh, I’m always in between sizes. I definitely need a personal tailor.
Men, in general, don’t have this problem. Their clothes come in more standardized sizes … not to mention, they can buy jeans and slacks by waist width and leg length sizes! When I take hours to shop and come home with two things, my husband says, “Why does it take so long? Just grab your size and buy it.” Yeah, right. If only women’s clothing manufacturers weren’t maniacs, I could do that.
Which brings me to shoes (just go with it). I saw a pair of shoes I liked in Penney’s catalogue. Do they have them in the store? Of course not. Husband tells me to just order them. Okay, the size thing is usually not a problem with shoes, but comfort is. How do I know if I can stand to wear them? I’ve gone barefoot every single second of my life that it was possible to do so. Because of this, believe me, it’s hard to find shoes that I can wear for more than twenty-minutes without wanting to kill somebody. Anybody handy, will do.
This week, I spent over three hours trying to find a pair of shoes for my NYC trip. Are they anything like what I had in mind when I started? Ha! The best I can say is, they’ll do.
All right, now we’ve come to my third shopping observation. I apologize to those of you who don’t recognize the stores I refer to in this section. Maybe you can get the gist anyway. No matter how I’m dressed when I go to Trader Joe’s, I always feel either over-dressed or under-dressed. It depends on which customer I study. There are the to-be-expected hippies, young and old, because it’s just that kind of place, and even though I don’t quite blend in with them, I’m not really threatened. But I’m always alert for a sighting of the sort of customer who is more likely to be spied at Whole Foods Market—the “upscale” woman. I have to make sure I stay far away from her to avoid any other customer comparing the two of us. These women fascinate me. I want to know their secrets. Why do their faces never get shiny? Why do their flip-flops always look brand new? And who do they feed that food to? Because it doesn’t look like they eat anything … ever.
Envious? Nah. I’m just irritable because I hate shopping. Hate it.