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My Profile
Because I can't bear to eulogize Doug - 2008-08-19
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9:36 p.m. - 2004-08-15
When the tough go shopping they buy mini-skirts and leather. A couple years back they attached a Target store to our local Galleria. Went in once. Mostly because a ton of folk here in D-land think Target is wonderful. I was underwhelmed by Target. It was just another discount house to me. One that wasn’t fat-friendly either. They had a LOUSY plus size department. And they had it jammed in with the maternity clothes, which I hate. Not maternity clothes, I hate that a lot of retailers push those two together. Like it makes no nevermind to fat chicks that maternity clothes are on the same racks as plus-sizes. Fat clothes are fat clothes, right? So, on my maiden visit Target hacked me off. What happens when you hack me off? I cut you dead. Boom. Over. Done deal. Sayonara, Target. I never went back. Until today. Mike had to drop a proposal off for a client in Malltown. Wolf and I were along for the ride. Since we were in Malltown I decided to scoot into Old Navy and buy another kilt. (I’ll get to the kilts in a minute, I’m talking about Target right now.) The quickest way to Old Navy from the parking lot is to cut through Target. The guys went to get lunch and I figured while I was there I might as well give Target a quick look-see. Then I remembered I didn’t shop in the plus department anymore. Uh oh. Earlier this week I gave The Coat to Alex. My fabulous Bulgarian-made cool black coat. It was a smidge too big when I bought it and losing 67lbs did not improve things. When I tried it on the other day it swam on me. I no longer looked cool in my coat. I looked like a refugee. So, son inherits cool coat and I need a new one. Leather. Black leather. Black leather motorcycle jacket. Not Harley, the racing style jacket with a high Mandarin collar and a short fitted waist. Discrete silver zippers. Yeah, I’d say I found me a new cool coat. At fricken Target. Okay, Tar-jay served up a seriously nice peace offering, but I feel like I’d let our side down somehow. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t ever do business with places that had a bad fat-titude, no matter how thin I got. And look at me! Not in this enemy store 5 minutes and I’m seduced by Mossimo. What a sniveling slave I am to my obsessions. Bargains! Fashion! Bargain fashion! Arrrrgh! I felt dirty. Dragging my ill-gotten loot in its hideous tell-tale heart red and white bag, I raced through the connecting tunnel and out into the mall. Wanting to put distance between me and the scene of the crime I booked it for Old Navy. Whereupon I soothed my harrowed up soul with: 3 corduroy mini-skirts, another short skirt in a charcoal worsted, a V-neck ribbed sweater, 3 long sleeve t-shirts, and two pairs of jeans. The last time I shopped at Old Navy I went off my chump and bought a mini-kilt. I know. I have no business wearing mini-kilts. I have a black watch mini I’ve loved for years. Can’t help it. It’s Catholic school spite. To take that hated plaid and tart it up is irresistible. And I’m a former punk. I saw those pleated tartan skirts on the rack and lost it. Before I could talk myself out of it I snatched up the largest size they had and buried it under a pile of school clothes for Wolf. In the privacy of my locked bedroom (where there was no one to mock) I tried it on. It fell off. I kid you not. I did up the zipper, hitched it around straight and let go. The skirt slid straight down. I looked at my plaid feet. A small nuke went off in my head. For the first time in umpty-billion years I do not wear the largest size in a regular women’s store. And I’m not even finished losing weight yet. I have another 33 to go. Decided to shoot for an even 100 pounds. I’m a New Math girl, I like round numbers. It’s weird, somehow the fact that my skirt (exchanged for the proper size) wasn’t the biggest they had made it okay for me to wear it. Like too youthful was balanced out by the lack of middle-age spread. I have a horror of being absurd. Just because I can dress like a teenybopper doesn’t mean I should. I’m still struggling to find my tone. I worry about it too much. A woman who carries herself well can get away with just about anything. One only becomes ridiculous if one agrees with the critics. Unfortunately my biggest critic is me. Leather jackets, mini-kilts. You know what’s next don’t you? Uh huh. Boots. Then fish nets. Then piercing. Then purple hair. Then I’m on the PTA’s shit list again. Well the note said, ‘Mrs Johnson, you're wearin' your dresses way too high.’ Gah. Enough already. G’nite, ~LA
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