There's a lot of deep stuff going on in life at my present course, so I thought it might be cathartic to talk about something less so, and perhaps something that just pisses me off. Aggression is sometimes great therapy, no?
I went to Vicky's on Thursday. I wanted to pick up a few pairs of new panties since I hadn't bought a single article of clothing for myself in three months (quite the record for me). It would have been stupid after all. I mean, why bother to continue to pour money into a wardrobe that I will slowly shrink out of and have to give away, piece by piece. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth. I'm cringing now to think of it.
It had been a while since I went into my usual retail haunts, Vicky's, Banana, Gap, Ann Taylor...and I had forgotten the implicit judgments, the cruelty...the looks. I got the usual nod and welcome coming into the door. Those girls are so bored standing in the front of the store they'll thank anyone who gives them conversation to pass the time. Believe me, I know...I still recall the ridiculousness of my time at Loft. Once you're inside though, that's where it starts.
It's not just weight, it's classist judgments too, that's obvious. Go in wearing tattered jeans, or a cheap T and flips and you'll likely not be waited on even if you're really a millionaire. If you don't look like you're going to spend money, give a name for their commission boost, you'll not get a hello. Well, it's worse for weight. A big girl goes into an upscale shop where the sizes only go up so high, and not only will they not wait on you, you'll get the sneered looks, as if to say "bitch, what are you even doing here....you know you're not going to fit into anything". For the record, bitches, I do fit into the stuff here, but don't come up to me and ask me what size I'm looking for with that expression on your face. There have been times when this hasn't happened of course. You dress up, you wear the right pair of heels, the right line-lengthening pants and it might not quite happen. I know all the tricks. Glamour can tell you how to dress and take of 10 pounds. I can show you how to dress and take off about 30. But I had forgotten.
I was actually pleased, PLEASED when I got to the front of the line with my three little pairs of panties and answered that no one had helped me in the store to the inquiring girl waiting to punch in the employee's ID for credit. It's an asinine ego boost to say in my head, "that's right, none of you bitches wanted to help the big girl." But why do we have to even get there, hmm?
It's like those shows...you see someone like Tyra, or Gwyneth stuff themselves in a fat suit and get on Access Hollywood or some bullshit attention-getting show and throw themselves on video being de-humanized and taunted by critical glares, spoken and un-spoken rude-ness. I'm here to tell you, that's insulting to me. Don't presume you know how it feels because you got made up for the day, or even a week. At the end of the day you peel that off and you get to return to normalcy and say...oh, those poor fat people. Condescending bullshit. Yes, we may have gotten ourselves here, but don't presume to know me.
Which brings up something else, what the hell are they thinking hiring skinny bitches (thank you, Mo') at LB? What big woman who walks into LB with a sigh knowing that the clothes here will fit, and in fact there are many sizes above that that will be too big; a relief-filling experience to be sure, and wants to have someone 1/3 her size asking her if she'd care to have a bra-fitting this afternoon?
I react always with a sweet smile, and think in my head, "now sweetie, I know you get all your bras at Vicky's and because you're an A cup you can get all those pretty little lace bras with lifters and such to give you cleavage...and yes, I'm jealous of that smallness to a degree, but if there's one thing I know...it'll me be pulling my own DDD's into an LB special, shelf-titty-making black lace bra, not you. But thank you for asking."
Thank you, come again.
I went to Vicky's on Thursday. I wanted to pick up a few pairs of new panties since I hadn't bought a single article of clothing for myself in three months (quite the record for me). It would have been stupid after all. I mean, why bother to continue to pour money into a wardrobe that I will slowly shrink out of and have to give away, piece by piece. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth. I'm cringing now to think of it.
It had been a while since I went into my usual retail haunts, Vicky's, Banana, Gap, Ann Taylor...and I had forgotten the implicit judgments, the cruelty...the looks. I got the usual nod and welcome coming into the door. Those girls are so bored standing in the front of the store they'll thank anyone who gives them conversation to pass the time. Believe me, I know...I still recall the ridiculousness of my time at Loft. Once you're inside though, that's where it starts.
It's not just weight, it's classist judgments too, that's obvious. Go in wearing tattered jeans, or a cheap T and flips and you'll likely not be waited on even if you're really a millionaire. If you don't look like you're going to spend money, give a name for their commission boost, you'll not get a hello. Well, it's worse for weight. A big girl goes into an upscale shop where the sizes only go up so high, and not only will they not wait on you, you'll get the sneered looks, as if to say "bitch, what are you even doing here....you know you're not going to fit into anything". For the record, bitches, I do fit into the stuff here, but don't come up to me and ask me what size I'm looking for with that expression on your face. There have been times when this hasn't happened of course. You dress up, you wear the right pair of heels, the right line-lengthening pants and it might not quite happen. I know all the tricks. Glamour can tell you how to dress and take of 10 pounds. I can show you how to dress and take off about 30. But I had forgotten.
I was actually pleased, PLEASED when I got to the front of the line with my three little pairs of panties and answered that no one had helped me in the store to the inquiring girl waiting to punch in the employee's ID for credit. It's an asinine ego boost to say in my head, "that's right, none of you bitches wanted to help the big girl." But why do we have to even get there, hmm?
It's like those shows...you see someone like Tyra, or Gwyneth stuff themselves in a fat suit and get on Access Hollywood or some bullshit attention-getting show and throw themselves on video being de-humanized and taunted by critical glares, spoken and un-spoken rude-ness. I'm here to tell you, that's insulting to me. Don't presume you know how it feels because you got made up for the day, or even a week. At the end of the day you peel that off and you get to return to normalcy and say...oh, those poor fat people. Condescending bullshit. Yes, we may have gotten ourselves here, but don't presume to know me.
Which brings up something else, what the hell are they thinking hiring skinny bitches (thank you, Mo') at LB? What big woman who walks into LB with a sigh knowing that the clothes here will fit, and in fact there are many sizes above that that will be too big; a relief-filling experience to be sure, and wants to have someone 1/3 her size asking her if she'd care to have a bra-fitting this afternoon?
I react always with a sweet smile, and think in my head, "now sweetie, I know you get all your bras at Vicky's and because you're an A cup you can get all those pretty little lace bras with lifters and such to give you cleavage...and yes, I'm jealous of that smallness to a degree, but if there's one thing I know...it'll me be pulling my own DDD's into an LB special, shelf-titty-making black lace bra, not you. But thank you for asking."
Thank you, come again.
No comments:
Post a Comment