I love shopping...not

I have an event coming up that I’ve been hesitant to discuss. I keep thinking if I pretend it isn’t coming I won’t have to go. I’m also not sure that invitation is really for me; invitations like that are for old people, right? But so far the word is that my 20th high school reunion is still on and my twin sister, who is organizing the shindig, assures me I need to have the PowerPoint presentation of pictures of classmates ready by next Saturday. So I guess I’m really going.

Let’s look on the bright side: I had an excuse to get a haircut, plus I splurged on highlights. So, woo hoo for that. I also figured I might as well get a new something to wear to this soiree. I should have stopped with the hair because my shopping trip turned out to be a disaster.

I hate shopping. Somehow I missed out on the shopping gene that seemingly all my girlfriends, aunts, and cousins have. My mother has a huge stand of shopping DNA running through her core and I do often feel like a failure because I cannot keep up with her. By store two I am over it. I do not browse. I do not like to flip through hangers. I do not enjoy the hunt. In short, I am like a man in a mall; I go in for one specific item, park next to an entrance that will get me as close as humanly possible to the store with the item, go straight in, buy item and get the heck out of Dodge.

(This does not apply to Target, a store I can browse through for hours. Not sure why, exactly, other than it is filled with wonders and amazements…)

So today, after dropping the kids off at VBS (Rebecca’s attending, Michael and Amy are helping) I headed over to the mall. I only had an hour so I had to move fast. Miraculously I parked in a good spot, headed to the right section and started pulling so much stuff of the racks I left hangers swinging in my wake. I hauled all the stuff to the dressing room and began the arduous task of trying things on.

I had such high hopes. But this trip ended like all others – me sweating, hair a mess and nothing to show for my efforts. And there is one and only one reason for my lack of success; my boobs, or more precisely, lack thereof.

See, I’m not exactly petite, so the clothes I try on are on the larger side. The problem is all designers apparently assume if you’ve got a big ol’ butt you must have big ol’ boobs. Every piece of clothing I tried on gaped like the Grand Canyon exactly where no girl wants gaping.

I toyed with the idea of getting something tailored; after all, Stacy and Clinton say the tailor is your friend. But in the end I just couldn’t justify the price of the dress plus tailoring, not to mention I wasn’t too keen on the idea of having to answer the question, “What do you need taken in?”

So I left empty-handed, called my mom and told her I couldn’t find anything. She wondered if I’d tried on more than two shirts – obviously she’s shopped with me before. She gave me some suggestions of other stores to try but I was done. Besides, it was time to gather my little chicks and the thought of trying on one more piece of anything was enough to put me over the edge.

I’m sure when I get home next week my Mom will take me to her favorite places and try to help me find something. Maybe she knows of a store that specializes in fitting 38 year olds who’ve kept 10 pounds per kid and have deflated boobs due to nursing said kids. If anyone can find it, Mom can.