This isn’t fun any more.

Normally an online shopper, I recently made a brief return to in store shopping. Why? Because somewhere along the way, when I wasn’t looking, I gained weight. Enough to bump me up a couple sizes, where I currently teeter between two. So I need to try things on — in a cramped, featureless room with harsh lighting and even harsher full-length mirrors. I should have been prepared, you know? I’m not exactly new to this.

What had begun as a charming afternoon of browsing and daydreaming and indulging, took an ugly turn in the dressing room when I caught a glimpse of myself as I changed. I have morphed into Dipsy Teletubby. The weight I was prepared for, the shape it had taken and the shifting that occurred were, oh, a surprise. Nothing was where I’d left it.

At first, as I faced the mirror, I spun around to nab the prankster behind this cruel distortion. Nobody there. I threw back the curtain, looked right, looked left, nobody there. Okay, then, this is a dream; no, this is a nightmare. I covered my eyes and sat down, hard, on the narrow, flimsy dressing room bench. As I huddled there, pale and shaken, I had a Come to Jesus Meeting with myself: “Snap out of it, you big baby, stop whining. It can’t be that bad, suck it up and look again.” I did, I looked through my fingers, and a sharp cry of anguish went forth into the land.

I’ll tell you this for free: Security guards get hinky at stuff like cries of anguish, especially when the source is hiding behind a curtain. Just FYI. When it was suggested I relocate to another shopping venue, I wasn’t insulted. Instead, I activated my Teletubby powers (if they have any) and fled.

Have you heard the expression, an ebb tide lowers all boats? Well, that’s what happened, my boat’s been lowered. And I don’t anticipate high tide any time soon. The way I’ve decided to look at it is, who cares? The sole purpose of clothing is to cover imperfections and minimize flaws, right? Otherwise we’d be nudists. The hard part, no, the impossible part, is finding the right size — one brand’s size 8 is another brand’s size 4 is another brand’s size 12.

Are all designers misogynists or just drunk? Until somebody can unravel the complex permutations of standard sizing, you’ll pardon me if I stick with Levi’s?

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