Trouser socks were on my list. Now I'm no stranger to Business Dress, I had a life like that BC: Before Children. I saved many of those clothes and shoes but, because almost two decades have passed since I brushed the dust off them, they have sort of dry rotted. Not to mention how much they are miserably outdated. In only a few minutes I have picked out half a dozen pretend stockings. That's impressive timing for me. Easy peasy.
The brassiere. Now this is a necessary piece of the female dress code. Sure, it's something we all (should) wear and most of us know what we look for in support. Each of us ladies have different needs you know. And although stores are endowed with a bazillion to choose from, it's not the quickest decision or purchase, even with a quick code to locate our specialized size. Kinda like how men can look for a number and buy jeans without trying them on which makes me so jealous...anyway, with ample time to compare I set out. Set out on a very chilly April morning in Central New York where the malls are kept a balmy 60 degrees to offset the recent winter coat wearing customers. Now I have to undress the most temperature sensitive parts and strap myself into icy cold bondage holders because satin is the least warm material in the entire world. They do not make fleece bras that I'm aware of. Yet. Joy.
The sweater comes off, the turtleneck is shed, and the current and pathetic excuse for a lifter-and-separator is removed. The girls are out. Skin that has not seen the light of day since August is shocked and petrified to firm(ish) proportions. If the cool air chilled them to their peak perkiness I guess it was to my advantage. I wouldn't have known at the time with all the cursing I was doing being so uncomfortable. Now I stand in the worse lighting ever, taking inventory of the goose-bumped, former milk factory to four humans, the ta tas that I own. In 60 degree temps, no less. Did I mention that already?
"I'm cold, I'm cold, I'm cold. What the hell am I doing? Do I have to do it RIGHT NOW? Why do these friggin' dressing rooms have no heat? Why do these stupid things stretch out anyway?" (I'm talking about the bras, not my bosom). "Ah, it's not like either have any weight to them."
To quote a State Fair favorite, toss in ball one. I choose the first item up for grabs. These idiotic hangers are frustrating. How are the straps tied onto them? There is no rhyme or reason. Finally, bobbing up and down to generate body heat and regretting the subsequent jiggling that generates, I get the damn thing off the tiny plastic holder and gasp as the material sucks away every last ounce of my body heat. Twist, clip, spin, hike and adjust. Yeah ladies, you know the routine. It's in place and now painfully obvious why they put the tags where they do. It's digging into my skin, reinforcing the Do Not Steal law. I don't want it on any longer than I have to which is negative seconds ago. It feels too tight, of course, it's what elastic is supposed to do and what my current bras are lacking. The cup isn't right, no matter how many I try on. Why is the coverage on the side of my breasts and not in the front where they actually reside? It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what will happen when I bend down. Yes, I spend upwards of forty bucks a pop for these things that can't hold their own (ha, I made a funny). Then, while the girls are out, unattended, the material rubs in such a way that I can only compare it to road rage. If I'm unhappy, everyone's going to be unhappy until everyone's in their place, literally and figuratively. It's a conspiracy and now I doubt women have any say in the design of these sadistic torture devices.
Fast forward to contestant number fifteen. I have now lost my excitement for shopping, I'm pissed because nothing feels right, I have a few measly potential bolder holders, and the dollar amount will cost me something akin to a renter's monthly payment.
And men wonder why we are so unhappy when we try on clothes. Girls day out wasn't what I thought it would be.