One thing I know about myself is that I hate clothes shopping. Actually, no. I love clothes shopping when it’s for other people. I love going clothes shopping with my Mum, for example, for I love picking out things for her to try on. What I hate, is clothes shopping for myself.
It’s the whole experience that I cannot stand. The changing room curtains that don’t pull across quite far enough. The hideously unflattering downward lighting that could make Heidi Klum look like a cellulite-riddled frump. The terror of stepping out of the changing room cocoon to look at yourself from a distance in the full length mirror, while some lithe little thing, who happens to have chosen to try the same dress as you, stands next to you as if to say, “This is a gorgeous dress…on me!” Oh! And the inevitable up-and-down glance from the sales assistant as they ask, “Was it OK?”
A couple of weeks ago I was forced to bite the bullet and go shopping for a new pair of jeans. I finally managed to get some, but not before I had almost been reduced to tears through frustration. In the last but one shop I went in, I spotted a gorgeous pair of jeans. In the “Boot Cut” style with a delicate lace-effect piping down the seam, they were just the kind of confidence-boosting item I was looking for. I chose my size, plus a size up (you know, just in case) and went into the changing room. To my horror and disappointment, neither pair fitted, and even if they had, I could tell that they wouldn’t have really suited me. As I stepped out of the changing room, the beaming sales assistant asked the inevitable question. “Were they OK?” she smiled.
“No,” I replied, “They’re horrible. They made me angry and really hurt my feelings!”
Clothes shopping is, I know, a part of life, but with any luck it will be a while before I have to endure such horror again!