10:19 a.m. - 2005-03-23
it's all about the lighting
Kels is coming to visit me. This is a very good thing. She will be my Easter date. Perhaps we can wear bonnets and shiny pink shoes with a strap and buckle like I did when I was five and everyone thought I was the cutest thing in the entire world. Now that I'm 26 and still, well, at least ONE of the cutest things in the world it may be time to bust out with some frilly easter gear. Or just wear the black pants and Ann Taylor knit top and a brooch like I was planning.
Let's talk about shopping. Specifically dressing rooms. The higher end stores, like the aforementioned Ann Taylor and J. Crew and Banana Republic have this whole lighting thing down to a science. Low level pinkish lights mercifully flatter the skin and mask the little imperfections that come with PMS, not being 16 anymore and the scrapes on my shins from being a clumsy cow on occasion. These sorts of dressing rooms make you want to buy whatever you're wearing because...well, you're HOT. You prance before the mirror, vamping and posing like the diva you are...not only thinking about how great this looks on you, but hell, you look pretty damned fine WITHOUT the clothes on. Suddenly you are a goddess. You are steamy. Everyone in their right mind wants to have sex with you and you should have your own television show. If only you personally knew Sarah Jessica Parker or the father of Jessica and Ashley Simpson. It would be a toss up between single girl in the city sexy/comedy and a reality show about how fabulous you are. Am I losing weight, you think, pulling the waist band of the pants out a little...maybe you could do a size 10 instead of the 12. Hot. Marilyn Monroe supposedly wore a 12. You are skinnier than Marilyn fucking Monroe. Hot damn. Where is your credit card because you are buying everying you brought into the dressing room with you. Screw the resolution you made to get out of debt. This is a fashion emergency...you are fabulous!
And then, we have the dressing rooms at, say....Target. Now, don't get me wrong. I love Tar-Jay. I accessorize my ass off there, Girls. And have managed to find a particular item that they have a lot of (camisoles) that I now just buy off the rack because I know they look great. However....
You enter the dressing room. The lady yells at you because you are trying to take too much shit in there. You sigh and try and figure out how to not end up with the shirt that matches the pants you have on being behind the desk with the mean dressing room lady when you need to try them on together. You hand her the bathing suit you really didn't feel ready to try on in March anyway and the purple velour jogging suit that is perfect for lounging and was on sale for almost free but you know is going to make you look like a soccer mom.
You head back to your assigned compartment. There are never enough hooks. Am I right about this? I mean...come on! Put some more freaking hooks in the compartment. What else are they using this space for?! So a bunch of shirts fall off the hangers and end up on the ground. You pull off your outfit and try to be careful about where you put your glasses, reminding yourself that you stepped on them last week and broke them and you will not be doing that again anytime soon. You pull on the striped capris and twinset. You squint from the bright fluorescent lights that make you look like a corpse. Oh my....are the bags under your eyes REALLY that bad. You peer closer. Good Lord! Mental note to make a waxing appointment, PRONTO. That zit on your chin is gigantic. Monstrous. Like a freaking PLANET. Hate! Hate this dressing room! This outfit makes you look like a giant circus act. Your face looks like death under these lights. You frantically dig your lipstick out of your purse because for pete's sake at least some color will make you look a tiny bit pulled together. You smooth your eyebrows. Fluff your hair. You eye yourself in the mirror and wonder if you are actually a decendent of Icelandic trolls. Is your ass getting bigger? It is! Damn that trip to Wendy's last week. You rip off the clothes you have schlepped, and put on your more familiar outfit that makes you feel slightly more normal, but still unsightly and storm out, handing the mean dressing room lady the items that "didn't work out for you" in a tangled heap. You head immediately for the shoe department because feet never look fat and you don't have to try shoes on in a dressing room.
