I bloody love shopping online for clothes!! The thrill of looking at all the beautiful things from the comfort of your own sofa surrounded by cups of glorious coffee and chocolate hob nobs without the fear of someone judging the wayward crumbs on your jumper.
The mere fact that you can sit for hours contemplating the contents of your basket without someone tutting behind you because you’re holding up the queue is enough incentive for me but an added bonus is that there will always be something in your size and there’s no need to wade through the quagmire of badly hung, inside out, upside down items of derelict clothing that look about ready to die.
Can you tell that I’ve never been a fan of trying clothes on in a shop. The first issue I come across is the fact that there’s a limit on how many you can take in. On those rare occasions when i summoned up enough energy to actually venture into a high street store, I like to grab as much as I can so I can try on clothes until the will to live passes me by. This is not aided by someone telling me as soon as I walk into a fitting room that “I’m sorry madam, there’s a limit of 5 items per person”.
Often there’s some svelte, gamine, young whipper snapper guarding the gateway to the hallowed fitting room openly judging everything you have grasped in your sweaty little hand not so secretly thinking “I’ll never wear that when I’m her age”. At that moment you know, you’ll be tonight’s hilarious anecdote as a gaggle of these elfin like creatures get ready to go out whilst drinking the latest mocktail, instagramming every minute detail of the occasion.
Occasionally on one of these rarer than hens teeth shopping trips you’ll be really unlucky and be cajoled into the tiniest of fitting rooms (Harry Potter would be disappointed with its sq footage) with the worst lighting and mirrors known to man where you proceed to wriggle around like a demented sausage trapped inside its casing, bash your elbows to smithereens whilst giving off the impression that you’re going 10 rounds with Mike Tyson.
Many a time I have left on the dark side of clammy having burnt more calories than in a hardcore spin class. I’ve entered with the maximum clothing quota of 5 items all of which look absolutely fabulous on the hanger/mannequin but as soon as reach my final cupboard sized destination they go through some sort of transformation resulting in me either resembling my mother or something akin to a bar wench with a soupçon of matron about her (Hattie Jacques eat your heart out).
The holy grail of bad situations is when you have actually managed to squeeze into one of said items of clothing and you either hear the horrid ripping sound or god forbid you get stuck!! I don’t mean a quick wiggle and jump here and there and bobs your uncle you’re free, I mean properly stuck. You have some how recreated the most challenging of yoga moves in the confines of the tiny fitting room. You have one arm wedged in front of your face, one behind your back, not to mention the very apparent boobs akimbo situation. Your body is a human form of Niagara falls, with sweat pouring from every pore and you know inevitably you are going to need to call for help from the supple 20 something guarding the gates of hell. This moment probably has to be the lowest of the low, something you will block from your memory as its not worth reliving the trauma.
When you have been extricated from the demon item of clothing normally accompanied by the sound of ripping and the use of blunt scissors, the red faced shop assistant (she’s seen far more of you than she’s seen of herself) looks to you with the sheepish glint of ‘you’ll need to pay for this’ so you bundle up the wretched rags of the clothing desperately justifying everything by reassuring yourself that you could always use the material for a cushion cover and take it over to the checkout. Luckily the till girl doesn’t need an explanation as to why the bundle of rags is before her as she’s been notified by walkie talkie ( as well as the majority of the store) from the ever efficient fitting room girl.
You leave under the humongous cloud of palpable embarrassment vowing never to enter the shop again, returning to the warm, cherished, cocoon of home as you pick up your iPad (or any other tablet device with internet access) cup of coffee and cheer me up chocolate of choice. Here you know that none of the trauma above can occur and the worst that could happen is that the screen freezes or your coffee gets cold.
Alternatively you could just stick to buying shoes…. A mantra I live by as you can see by the featured image!
TTFN lovelies xx