Changing

Okay, just to prepare you all....

This is not a deep, meaningful post about how my life is making a turn for the better and the introspection about that progression. (Have you EVER come to my blog and found anything remotely like that? So why would you now?)

However, I want to caution Traci and Beth to sit down, before reading on. Swallow the coffee, if you have some in your mouth, and prepare to be amazed.

(The rest of you all, well, I hope you're not horribly disappointed after this build up.)

(It's a True Confession sort of post.)






Yesterday, I voluntarily entered a clothing boutique with no intention whatsoever of buying anything, and spent an hour trying on clothes that cost more than my yearly book budget. 

The key word here is "voluntarily". 

Here's the story:

I don't like to shop. And I really, really don't like to shop for clothes. It's torture for me. 
The rare occasion arises when I must go to a real store and muster up the courage to pull something off the rack and try it on.

First of all, I can never decide what size to pull.  Do I take the size I think I am, the size I was last time I tried something on (high school) or the size that I'm hoping swims on me but probably will be perfect? Tricky. 
(And don't let saleswomen help you "find" something. They'll want to.  Under that perfect little outfit they are wearing beats a black heart, as I will explain further down the post.)

So, I grab about 3 things that should "go with everything" and humbly request to be let in to the fitting room.  Turns out, if you spend time cultivating a relationship with a salesgirl, you'll get the covetted room furthest from the door opening into the store.  I never have that kind of time, so I have to put up with the crummy room. 

Here's where it really gets ugly.  The dressing rooms are 2ft squared, which is NEARLY enough room for a full grown woman, her purse and some clothes.  I'm not the most coordinated of people, so I really need more room. I have to figure out where to put the clothes I just took off, how to get the try-on clothes on my person without marring them, and somehow slip out discreetly to find a mirror.

These dressing rooms are hot. I struggle, and finally emerge in a fashion don't.  I try to slip over to the full length mirror that was bought, incidently, at a circus supply store. You know the kind. Your bottom looks gargantuan, as does your face. My face, of course, is red from the dressing room fight.  This is where the evil heart of the salesgirl kicks in. 

She pretends to be getting clothes out of an empty dressing room to rehang, but secretly is looking to see if I managed to pull together an outfit. The MINUTE I re-enter the dressing room, discouraged and disillusioned, this woman who was sent by the devil himself, stands by my dressing room door and says in a sweet voice, "How are you doing in there? Do you need me to get you those jeans in a different size?"

She knows darn good and well how I'm doing and that I need those jeans about two sizes larger. She SAW me, for heaven's sake!

My reply (because I'm not going to play her wicked game and ask for the size I really need) is, "Doing fine. Everything's fine.  Don't need another size, especially not larger...thank you!"

The salesgirl saunters out, snickering under her breath, and I try to get all the clothes BACK on the hangers, and redress myself.

The dressing rooms are hot. I struggle, and finally emerge in a fashion don't. (The clothes I wore in.)  Using all the grace I can possibly muster, and a lacksidaisical air that is fooling no one, I hand off the three hangers of clothes to the saleswoman, and say that I don't really think any of them will work for me today, and leave the store. 

I try not to run until I turn the corner.

My only consolation is that the saleswoman has to put the clothes back, but I wish I could warn that poor dear soul that just entered the store with hopeful eyes.

I told you that so I can tell you this:

(Still with me?)

I went to Miles City yesterday for a doctor's appointment, without kids and husband.  After the appointment, I got the requisite short triple shot breve, and still had about 20 minutes to kill, so I went to the new (and only) clothing boutique in town.  Annie has been gushing about this place for a month, and I thought I'd go in and look around, to placate her.

 She swore it would be wonderful and she told me to be ready for big prices.   Big prices, to me, are double digits on the tag, with no red printing showing their original cost. 

I went in and I have to agree....it's really wonderful clothing! I would try to name drop about designers, here, but I wouldn't have a clue whether it was cool or humiliating, so I'll leave you to imagine exclusive lines of garments. 

The saleslady was engaging and excited about her wares. The more she showed me, the more animated she got.  We looked at darts, fabrics, lines and colors in great detail. She'd swoosh something off the rack, tickled to her toes by it, and then dash to the next rack, performing the same thing. 

Apparently, I was hypnotized, because the next thing I knew, I was in a cool dressing room with three lovely outfits that altogether cost more than what I could sell a bred heifer for. AND, get this...I told her my REAL size and she didn't bat an eye or snicker or anything. This bode well. (bade? boded?) I made the mistake, however, of looking at a price tag on one dress before I tried it on.  I nearly chickened out. 

I ended up spending 45 minutes, trying on everything she tossed at me in my size.  She was very kind and sincere, but she didn't flatter me.  When something was off, we both knew it, and I'd go back to the dressing room and start over with outfit #16. 

It was fun.

I really, really wish I could've purchased something, because I enjoyed myself so much, but I had to break the spell and buy groceries, instead. 

That's my confession.  That's the story. 

I still can't believe it happened, and neither will Traci and Beth, until I show them the card with the prices written down of the top 5 outfits.