I reeaally do not want to do this. I
really, really don't. I hate it. That's why I haven't gone in over
two years. That's why I wear sweat pants or dresses – ultimately to
avoid this. I HATE this. It always ends up the same way – feeling
fat, bloated, disgusting, annoyed, frustrated, gross and judged.
It may be fun for someone else, and you
may be reading this and trivializing my “uncomfortable thing” but
I don't even care. I actually hate this so much and it sends me right
back to the first time I looked at myself in jeans. I was nine years
old and hated the look of my legs. Drumstick legs I called
them then. I have never felt great about my body – ever – and if
there is one thing that epitomizes discomfort it is forcing myself to
go jean shopping.
Yes, Jean Shopping. I hate nothing more
than the whole process from the overattentive retail workers to the
number scaling and forcibly staring at myself in a mirror picking out
every single flaw.
I come from a long line of
short-legged, big-bootied, wide-hipped women and the gruelling
process of selecting the largest size available and having to look at
myself in the mirror makes me physically sick. I really don't want to
follow through with this and I keep trying to find something else I
could do by tomorrow that I would be more comfortable being
uncomfortable with. But I'll suck it up – sort-of, I spent the
first 30 minutes at the mall looking at anything BUT jeans and buying
anything that wouldn't require me to wear jeans with it.
Store #1...
Super Skinny, Super Skinny, Super
Skinny – all the damn jeans are labelled super skinny. As if all of
this is getting in any of that. My stomach actually sank as I looked
at the sizes – the last time I did this I was 20 lbs heavier and
just looking at the shelves of jeans makes me feel each and every
pound coming back around my already thick and jiggly thighs.
Groossss. I hate this. I reluctantly grab three pairs of jeans and
head towards what resembles more of a leery cave than a fitting room.
The twig employee weighing in at about
100 pounds at five foot even gives me a room and assures me she's
right there if I need anything – I do need something but it's not
for you to hover over me, thanks. WHY DO THESE CHANGE ROOMS NOT HAVE
MIRRORS. Now I have to open the damn door to look at something that
makes me cringe to just think about. Actually, no, jokes on me. I
can't even zip up the damn jeans enough... at least I don't have to
subject myself to the critical reflection for now.
Now if only I can give the clothes back
without the twig girl asking me how I made out with them.
SWEET JUSTICE SHE'S NOT THERE. I can
just slide the tag on the desk and put the jeans away. I make my way
over to the daunting shelves yet again and who do I meet there but
the twiggy herself. She asks me if I'm looking for anything in
particular today. It's like all the thoughts I was trying to keep
locked up in order to keep composure just came flooding out in word
vomit, “Well actually, I'm taking a writing class and we have an
assignment where we have to do something uncomfortable and then write
about, and I hate nothing more than jean shopping so I guess I'm just
here trying on jeans.” She just looked at me like I may as well
have told her my entire life story, “Uhh okay..” I wanted to take
it all back, “Or the less awkward response – my sister's birthday
is coming up and I have no jeans to wear.”
I couldn't even believe that I just
told her that. What the hell. She looks at me up and down and asks
for my size. I told her anything above a 30, “I've got a big bootie
and wide hips” I said as if I had to defend my response. She
skeptically got me the jeans and told me how cute I would look in
this new pair with little rips and tears in it.
Barf. I literally would rather be doing
anything else. Are you kidding me? Fine. So I go to the cave yet
again while she asks me – twice – how I am making out and insists
I come out and show her. ARE WE BEST FRIENDS IN THE FIFTH GRADE,
GIRL. Let me have some space – PLEASE.
Sure enough, the 29s fit but were way
too long. “Oh wow, you do have a big butt” she chimes in as she
looks me up and down over and over. “Yeah. Hips don't lie” I
responded begrudgingly. Oh my god, get me out of here. I feel like my
legs are on an atrocious display and to be honest the jeans were not
even that cute.
Leaving the store was a pretty dead on
symbol of bittersweet. I was so relieved to be out of there but knew
I had to go into more stores and repeat the same process.
Store #2
Could you have more nosey and
overattentive sales people, really? The worst part is I already feel
so incredibly uncomfortable looking at the jeans and then thinking
about trying them on, and then actually trying them on but then add
the attention from the retail clerks and it just makes me even more
sick to my stomach. Why am I even doing this.
She sets me up with SEVEN pairs of
jeans. Four of which I can hardly squeeze my leg into let alone zip
them up. The other three just accentuated the drumstick-like shape of
my leg. As if the term “super skinny” doesn't make me
uncomfortable enough they literally cling to my legs and show my
thick thighs and scraggly ankles. “Girls with legs like mine don't
wear jeans like these,” I want to tell her but don't.
She asked me three times how I was
doing in the change room as I politely try to tell her it just isn't
really my style. “Oh but you'll totally get used to them,” she
states matter of factly, “They're all I wear now.” K COOL GOOD
FOR YOU.
I handed back the mountainous pile of
jeans to the newest attendee looking after the change rooms, “Oh,
not even one fit, huh?” “Nope, not today – thanks!” and with
that I was gone.
At this point I can't even tell you how
many stores I've gone in to and how many people have come up to me
asking about my size and style and what I'm looking for. I am soooo
sick of this. It's draining to repeat the same conversations over and
over and each time the tone of my voice gets more quick and short. By
the near end of the gruelling hour I'm not saying a thing about jeans
– “no, just browsing. Thanks.”
I feel fat, bloated, disgusting,
annoyed, frustrated, gross and judged. I can feel the extra weight
around me, I can feel my lunch expanding inside my stomach, I feel
like I need to shower, I feel so on edge with every conversation just
wanting to GET OUT. God, I am frustrated! Nothing is worth this. Why
am I even doing it the first place. One of the worst parts is the
judging eyes of the employees. It's like they're looking at me
knowing their clothes won't fit me and they think that I think I'm
skinny enough to wear them. Clearly not the case.
I'll make a last ditch effort in hopes
of maybe having some success after such a disgusting day. American
Eagle – I have never gone in this store in my life but it's the
only one left. What they lack in size variety they make up in style
though. I tried on a couple pairs of jeans, all too long, but at
least they didn't make me cringe to look at in the mirror. The
fitting room clerk asks me how they fit, and with my exasperated “too
long, but that happens” she smiled and said “just one second”.
Another worker came over and had
checked out back for a short length pair of the same jeans, “try
these on” she says.
I pull the last pair of jeans on for
the day over my legs and they zip up nicely. The length was a bit
long but perfect if I ever wear heels and they didn't cling to my
drumstick-like legs. They were actually, comfortable. This was
certainly a welcomed feeling after a day of loathing every second
spent in and out of fitting rooms.
I can't say that because of these new
jeans it was a rewarding experience though, because subjecting myself
to mega hit to the self-esteem and the judging eyes of others will
always strike discomfort into my heart. I can tell you, though, that
I now happily won't have to go jean shopping again for at least
another two years.
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