What Not To Wear

Jordan and her mom (my aunt, for those playing at home) surprised my mom and I by showing up at camp yesterday. I was especially surprised because I didn’t have my glasses on and Jordan dyed her blond hair black, so when I saw her from afar, I was like, “Hey…you!” until I realized it was her, and we both hopped around in a circle like girls.
Unfortunately, she could only stay for about 12 hours, as she had to get back to work by Wednesday, so we had to cram in a whole lot of Funnenizing into a short time. So, naturally, I spent the evening showing Jordan the World of Warcraft.
Today, however, she took me up on my offer to take me clothes shopping, which I had suggested long ago as something that I knew I probably should do, but didn’t actually want to do. Actually, that doesn’t lend itself to hilarious analogies, so let’s say it was a lot like surgically grafting real angel wings on my back. It was something I thought I would look better by doing, but knew that it would probably be expensive, a little painful, and would make me feel like everyone was looking at me funny.
We walked into a mall, and the first store we walked into was apparently The One. A ravenous salesgirl descended on us, which is kind of understandable, because we looked like the perfect mark — One girl with a cute body and total sense of style, meaning she likes to buy, and one girl who has no sense of style whatsoever and who desperately needs EVERY PAIR OF JEANS IN THE STORE AND MAYBE SOME FROM A FEW OTHERS.
The salesgirl immediately started speaking an alien tongue to Jordan who picked it up and responded. I don’t remember a whole lot from that point on because I was literally being ushered to a dressing room by the salesgirl who informed me that she would find me a pair of jeans that day. As the room spun around me, I recall muttering something to the effect of how I didn’t want jeans, and that I liked my Target brand jeans just fine and I really just wanted some shirts that didn’t say “Nintendo” on them.
The woman asked me what size pants I wore, and considering the last time I went pants shopping was in high school, I blurted out that I was a 10, which I know now is a hilarious, hilarious joke that I may use someday in my stand-up. I am apparently a smidge larger than I was in high school. If you’re wondering how I found Target brand jeans to fit me, I simply told a worker, “muy grande,” and they brought those over to me. So, anyway, like all stores, this place likes to translate actual sizes into imaginary numbers that coincide to their own store, so of course 10 really meant 30, 12 meant Q, and my size meant Eleventy-Five. The dressing rooms don’t have mirrors, so I guess Jordan and the saleslady took my hilarious laughter of trying to get the jeans zipped up as “A Perfect Fit!” Then I would sheepishly waddle out to a mirror and they would inform me that skin-tight was way in this year. I would inform them that I was losing circulation in my legs, and could they possibly sew two pairs of jeans together to fit me?
I finally found a pair that I could breathe in and that looked like they had been stylishly ripped and urinated on, and luckily I have enough fashion sense to know that urine is the new acid wash, so I put them in the Buy pile. The pushy saleslady from Planet Zargoff was breaking out into a sweat trying to trolley shirts and shoes for me to try on, and I was sort of wondering when the part of shopping where I actually got to shop was. But I guess it made me feel like one of those trendy stores in Beverly Hills where the salespeople kiss your ass and then cover it with a cute little suede number, so I kept my mouth shut.
So I modeled for Jordan and Pushy Lady a bunch of stuff that I thought looked like lingerie, looked like something my grandmother donated to a thrift store, and looked like a t-shirt that had accidentally got caught in a misaligned glitter press, but I actually agreed on about 7 clothes items and a pair of stylin’ flip flops.
I liked the shoes because they looked good with every outfit, but I didn’t notice until a little later that the neat-looking slab-of-wood motif making up the flop part *was* indeed an actual slab of wood. Lesson for today: slabs of wood are not comfortable to walk on.
Lesson #2: I am glad I have health insurance, because I am going to break my ankle on a high-heeled slab of wood. Also: why does a person that’s 5’7″ *need* high heels, you ask? Apparently there wasn’t enough embarrassment in my childhood of being taller than every guy in my grade. At least now I can do it with a fashionable slab of wood!
So, I am $200 poorer and I hope $200 more stylish. I was going to end by saying that I am sprucing up the rest of my wardrobe by urinating on it, but I thought that was really gross, so I won’t say it.

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