Spring shopping stinks

March is the worst time to go shopping. I was at the mall the other day returning a pair of shorts for my daughter. I had some time to kill and no babies on the hip, so to speak, and decided to pop in to my favorite retailers to see if I could find a few items for spring. I needed some sandals (the sole of one of mine from last year literally broke in half) and a pair of denim capris (I wore out both knees of my old ones scrubbing floors), and hoped I might also be able to locate a fun new bathing suit.

What started off as a lovely day soon became an exercise in self-loathing and insecurity. First off, I’m paler than pale having not seen sun in six months, which meant absolutely nothing looked good on me. Having no tan also meant my cellulite stood out like the proverbial terd in a punchbowl. I don’t have much, but for some reason, the fat likes to party right around my thighs, regardless of how much I exercise or diet. (This is how I know God is a man; a woman would have created a female body that gains weight in the chest and loses it in mid-section. Not the other way around!) So the swimsuits were a definite no-go, as were the jeans. I simply could not find a combination of rise and cut that accentuated the right areas. The whole experience was exasperating.

The coup de grace was my adventure intoVictoria’s Secret. Ever since my beloved water bra bit the dust last year, I’ve been too depressed to replace her. Necessity ended my mourning period.  So I walked right up to the first sales person (an annoyingly perky 20-year old) and laid it out: “I need bigger and better. Whatcha got?” She was a little too excited to sell me on their miracle of miracle push-ups, which miraculously didn’t make anything bigger or better. Talk about a buzz kill. I try the best VS has to offer, and I’m still measuring at preteen sizes? That’s a damn shame.

Five stores and not one purchase. I couldn’t even find a pair of basic black flip-flops because my big unpainted clompers resembled uncooked German sausages. Fair enough. Lessons learned.  No summer clothes shopping until August and no bra buying in person. Or ever. Peace out.