Clothes shopping

Clothes shopping is one of those activities that should be enjoyable, but typically leaves me feeling disheartened by the whole process.  Maybe I just over-complicate the whole experience with my usual mix of social angst and diffidence, but I suspect I'm probably just a fashion pariah.

I'm really good at the sorting out and throwing away part of assessing my wardrobe.  I have a ruthlessness that would rival Ghengis Khan on discovering someone had put plastic in his glass recycling bins.
So, once the wardrobe has been stripped of its contents, I am then faced with the prospect of refilling it with new attire. This poses several issues for me. Firstly, I have the fashion sense of a blind lugworm.  Secondly I am easily intimidated by clothing store staff, with their pristine hair, prettily made-up faces and perfectly manicured nails.  I tentatively make my way into these stores, keeping flush against the walls like a feral rat.  Catching the beautifully eyelined glare of the assistant, I lurch awkwardly toward the nearest clothes rail and grab the first couple of garments my hands land on.

And then comes the trauma of 'trying them on.'  After selecting a few items in two different sizes, I then queue outside the changing rooms.  Whilst waiting, I cast my eyes over the other customers' potential purchases, and compare them to my own choices.  I am instantly disappointed with my garments, and feel strangely shunned by Womenkind for my lack of fashion knowledge.

When I eventually make it to a changing cubicle, I'm immediately struck with the paranoid thought that the assistant thinks I'm stealing as I've brought my massive backpack in with me (in combination with my clothing this makes me look like a nomadic turtle).  I then spend an inordinate amount of time checking that the curtain is drawn completely, so no gaps or unwanted eyes can enter.  Once satisfied that I've created a temporary modesty bubble, I then don the new clothes.  Frustration (and a little depression) soon sets in when the size 8-10 is too small, but the 10-12 is too big for the exact same style, and the item I adored on the rail makes me look like a disfigured Bobo doll.
This pattern repeats over several stores, until I either find a shop that proffers clothes that actually fit my shape (I'm beginning to wonder if I have a weird body shape, like a tetrahedron or something, and that's why I find buying clothes so difficult) or I give up and buy the outfit that gives my physique Bobo doll qualities, and pretend it's a deliberate style statement (i.e. I have no sense of style).


Because of my abhorrence for clothes shopping (and the fact I'm growing another human in me that's rapidly turning my regular t-shirts into crop tops - the white trash look; the antithesis of haute coutre) I am currently in a sort of wardrobe Groundhog Day.  I have decided that once Little Parasite is born, and I get my figure as back to normal as it's going to (currently I actually do look surprisingly like a Bobo doll), I'll attempt to revamp my wardrobe more successfully.