Also why I don’t go to parties.
See, there’s going to be a family party for the fourth of July. A relation has an apartment in a high-rise building, from the balcony of which the fireworks downtown can be viewed, crowd- and mosquito-free. (And just plain “free.”) So said relation is having a party, starting with dinner, and staying until the fireworks. This is not the college variety of party. This is the standing around talking variety of party, with minimal drinking, and zero fun of any kind. (In fact, it is likely to be sheer torture, since it will involve coming up with answers to the question of “what are you doing these days?” My brother will have no answer whatsoever to that, and I can only answer regarding my studies. But I am currently addled by new medication, and I’m terrified that I’ll start talking about how my thesis hinges on the sexual relationship between Achilles and Patroclos. Even though that’s actually not it.)
Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about. (I’ll whimper about that on Sunday, after it’s actually happened.) What I wanted to talk about was today’s misery. Because today I was informed that the party was going to be on the “fancy side of casual” and that I didn’t have anything nice enough to wear.
Of course. Because telling me the day before the party is the right time to tell me.
So, dizzy and lightheaded with my medication, I had to be driven to the mall to go and hope that I could find something to wear.
Despite that this is the third of July, and the medical condition in my arm that this medication is so far not resolving requires me to wear three-quarters length sleeves (or longer) at all times. Because it’s so easy to find those in July. In my size.
The first two shops we hit were a total bust, as expected. And the second one added insult to injury by having three mirrors in the changing room instead of one, to ensure that I could see just how hideously overweight I really am. Consequently I tricked my brother into thinking that I had gone back to the pretzel place for a pretzel dog while he ate at the food court, when I really just went back and had a diet soda for lunch. Well, at least I had some caffeine and liquid, right?
Anyway, after lunch, I see a promising store, which has a sticker in the window saying that “select stores carry plus sizes” so I go in to see if the store in question is one of the “select stores.” I see a number of nice shirts, some of which have long enough sleeves, but none of them are large enough, so I have to find a sales clerk. As I approach the clerk, she immediately goes into a sales pitch about the sale they’re having this weekend. Once I can get a word in edgewise, I ask if the store carries plus sizes, and she admits that they won’t get any in until Monday.
If the store didn’t have any merchandise that would fit me, then why in the name of all sanity would she waste her breath giving me that sales pitch?! Who did she think I was going to buy those on sale shirts for?! She could see that there was no way I was going to fit into any of the clothes in that entire store!
I’m not sure if that was insensitive, rude, or just downright offensive.
Either way, it ticked me off.
See, this is exactly why I never go clothes shopping unless I have to. Normally, I only go into stores that sell toys, books, games, DVDs or Blu-rays. (Uh, and necessities like groceries.) It just cuts through all the garbage. And my size has nothing to do with whether or not I can find something acceptable. Plus I don’t have to look in any mirrors. That helps a lot.
Honestly, I’m still kind of hoping that I’ll somehow break a very minor bone between now and the party so I won’t have to go. Or having some other minor medical emergency. Really, just throwing up would probably do, as long as it was dramatic enough. I wonder if I can throw up on cue…