Shut Up
I almost killed a girl at Ann Taylor Loft last night.
I went looking for pants. I'm right between sizes and things fit weird and why do all the skirts this season hit right at the fattest part of the calf? Why? It would be okay, maybe, if they were skinny skirts. Little Audrey Hepburn cigarette skirts. But they're flared. And that's not right. So. Pants.
I grab a bunch of stuff and go into the dressing room. There are three of us in there. A dressing room with about eight stalls. Two other people are in there. I quickly find out their life stories.
There's a mother and a daughter. Mom is right around fifty. Daughter is in her mid-twenties. Daughter has problem hips, thighs and boobs. This, in reality, means she's fat, but she won't actually say this to the sales lady to whom she's describing her problem areas. She says, at one point, that she's between a size 14 and a size 10. I saw this girl. She's about 5'4". If she's seen a size 10 in the past year, I'll eat my shorts. Or that ugly skirt I can't wear.
Mother and Daughter, rather than getting dressing rooms next to each other, pick rooms at complete opposite ends. I'm right next to Mother. Daughter has a voice like Fran Drescher's midwestern cousin. I proceed to listen to the following for the next twenty minutes:
"Mom, I love those jeans."
"I so wish I'd worn a white bra."
"I so wish I'd worn flip flops."
"I really should've worn a white bra and flip flops."
"Faded jeans are the style, Mom."
"Dad will love you in those."
"Who is that on the phone, Mom?"
"Which way does this tie?"
"Do they have flip flops out front?"
"Oh, I love these capris!"
"You should totally get those in black."
"Do you have this in a bigger size?"
Non. Stop. She wouldn't shut up. I'm muttering under my breath, describing all the wonderful methods I'll use to kill her. I'm certain that her mother heard me, because she was as silent as a mouse the entire time. I literally had to leave the dressing room to go wander around, telling the employee that I had to get out of there to clear my head. I think she thought I was upset by the fit of the pants I was trying on.
Which I was, but not that upset.
I went looking for pants. I'm right between sizes and things fit weird and why do all the skirts this season hit right at the fattest part of the calf? Why? It would be okay, maybe, if they were skinny skirts. Little Audrey Hepburn cigarette skirts. But they're flared. And that's not right. So. Pants.
I grab a bunch of stuff and go into the dressing room. There are three of us in there. A dressing room with about eight stalls. Two other people are in there. I quickly find out their life stories.
There's a mother and a daughter. Mom is right around fifty. Daughter is in her mid-twenties. Daughter has problem hips, thighs and boobs. This, in reality, means she's fat, but she won't actually say this to the sales lady to whom she's describing her problem areas. She says, at one point, that she's between a size 14 and a size 10. I saw this girl. She's about 5'4". If she's seen a size 10 in the past year, I'll eat my shorts. Or that ugly skirt I can't wear.
Mother and Daughter, rather than getting dressing rooms next to each other, pick rooms at complete opposite ends. I'm right next to Mother. Daughter has a voice like Fran Drescher's midwestern cousin. I proceed to listen to the following for the next twenty minutes:
"Mom, I love those jeans."
"I so wish I'd worn a white bra."
"I so wish I'd worn flip flops."
"I really should've worn a white bra and flip flops."
"Faded jeans are the style, Mom."
"Dad will love you in those."
"Who is that on the phone, Mom?"
"Which way does this tie?"
"Do they have flip flops out front?"
"Oh, I love these capris!"
"You should totally get those in black."
"Do you have this in a bigger size?"
Non. Stop. She wouldn't shut up. I'm muttering under my breath, describing all the wonderful methods I'll use to kill her. I'm certain that her mother heard me, because she was as silent as a mouse the entire time. I literally had to leave the dressing room to go wander around, telling the employee that I had to get out of there to clear my head. I think she thought I was upset by the fit of the pants I was trying on.
Which I was, but not that upset.
posted by Miss Head at
5:12 AM
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