While I would like to make it clear that under absolutely no circumstances would I ever like to repeat the time yesterday in between leaving a train from Kingston at Union Station and arriving at Pearson International for a plane to Columbus, it is rather gratifying to note that I am still capable of the sort of organization and efficiency that it demanded. I left the house with the leftovers of the squeaky cheese in the fridge (good plan or the cat will eat it), got things more or less moved from one suitcase to another, and even remembered to take my spare laptop battery and tossed a half cup of coffee in the planter on the porch, which I’m going to call “watering” since it was the best I had time to do.
True, upon arrival here in Columbus I did note that in my hurry to throw things into a suitcase I had packed some rather odd things, like plenty of clothes, but ones that somehow add up to only two matching outfits… which is somewhat particularly problematic, since I am here for four days, but since I’m not a very snappy dresser anyway, I suppose that I can live with it. I’ve always wanted to be someone who dresses well, like my mum or my sister, who are always wearing something that A) fits, B) does not have a coffee stain down the front of it, and C) is not missing a button, but I think that as long as I keep hating clothes shopping and refusing to do it except under the direst of circumstances, I’m probably going to keep falling behind the pack.
I know I’m not the only one who hates shopping. I hear all the time about people who love it, or people who find great things or people who search until the find something great, but I just don’t have the stamina for it. I get in there and there’s nothing I like, or if I do like it they don’t have it in my size, or if I do like it and it is in my size, it crosses my personal threshold for what I can afford – or think it should cost. I have left behind beautiful clothes that fit me beautifully that I could totally afford because I still thought the price was nothing short of highway robbery, and left in a huff.
Then there’s the anger. I’m not a weird size. Depending on what kind of store I’m in, I somewhere between a size four and a six, although I do have rather large “accessories” in the front. I’m short, true… but not so freakishly short that it should be a barrier to dressing, but somehow it is. Take Gap pants. The average North American woman is 5 foot 4. I’m 5 foot 1 (and a half. I have good posture) that means, to my way of thinking, that if I go into a store and put on their average length pants, they should be too long for me. I can live with that. What I don’t understand is why their “short” length is still a good 5 inches too long. If 5’4″ is average, and I’m 5’1″, then why the hell would the short length still add up to 5’6″? Why we’re at it? What’s up with the monkey arms? Why in the name of everything reasonable are the sleeves on all shirts so bloody long? Or why do they think that if you’re 5’1″ tall, that you must also be unreasonably thin? I’m at a healthy body weight, clothes shouldn’t be judging me like that. Also, my arse is normal. I have been looking at the arses of other women (not in a creepy way) and have determined this. So why doesn’t my arse go into half of the pants in the world? These questions have never been suitably answered for me, probably because I’m asking them of a sales clerk at the Gap who has no idea, no concern and really wishes I would just buy another 3/4 sleeve shirt and another pair of capri’s that I’m gong to wear as full length pants and get out of the store.
All of this is a long way around saying that if you see me this weekend and I’m wearing the same thing twice? Blame the Gap. It was a set up.