While most people spend Christmas shopping for others, hoping they like whatever you bought, keeping track of gift tags, and asking strangers to try on sweaters because they're about the same size as the recipient, my family goes practical. Every year my sisters and I each get a day with Mom where we wander the mall, purses stuffed with cash and coupons, and pick out all our Christmas gifts.
Sure, it takes some of the surprise out of it, but it's better to get things you like than some awkward sweater that doesn't fit and you'd never wear, and you have to feign like you love it. Plus we've always done it this way. It's one of our quirky Christmas traditions.
So last weekend Mom and I busted into the mall, pushed past droves of children waiting to see Santa, scurried past the stage of tweens dancing to "Party in the USA," (WTF?) and walked into the store to pick out my annual Christmas wardrobe.
I brought a pile of pants with me to the dressing room wanting to have more than four pair in regular work rotation. I tried them on. A little bit of pulling at the hips; next size. Now they're sitting on my hips, drag on the floor like I'm a child playing dress up, and still pull at the hips. Try on a pair of jeans the same size as what I wore into the store and I can't even get my leg all the way into them.
I cuss, get an unapproving look from Mom, who assures me that the pants are obviously made for freaks, and we move on.
Next store. Same size as the last store don't button, same size as I'm wearing into the store, not a prayer. Mom brings in the next size up; they fit, even in length. Oh, they're the "curvy" fit in "ankle length." I look at Mom. "They may as well call these the "short, fat girl pants."
She laughs. I scowl.
So we bought a bunch of tops and the pants for the short, fat girls (apparently me), and walked out, my self-esteem battered. As we walked through the department store on the way back to the parking lot we stared at the shoes. Glorious shoes. Rows and rows of shoes that only vary half a size in any direction, no matter where they're from. Shoes that don't make me look fat, or feel bad about myself. They will never look better on another girl because she's skinnier or has a smaller butt. They won't sit in the closet and mock me because they no longer fit, or randomly shrink in the dryer and become fit for a doll.
Shoes love me. For always, no matter what. Even if I do have an extra cookie and can't fit in my pants.
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| They all love me, even if I hate them. |
So last weekend Mom and I busted into the mall, pushed past droves of children waiting to see Santa, scurried past the stage of tweens dancing to "Party in the USA," (WTF?) and walked into the store to pick out my annual Christmas wardrobe.
I brought a pile of pants with me to the dressing room wanting to have more than four pair in regular work rotation. I tried them on. A little bit of pulling at the hips; next size. Now they're sitting on my hips, drag on the floor like I'm a child playing dress up, and still pull at the hips. Try on a pair of jeans the same size as what I wore into the store and I can't even get my leg all the way into them.
I cuss, get an unapproving look from Mom, who assures me that the pants are obviously made for freaks, and we move on.
Next store. Same size as the last store don't button, same size as I'm wearing into the store, not a prayer. Mom brings in the next size up; they fit, even in length. Oh, they're the "curvy" fit in "ankle length." I look at Mom. "They may as well call these the "short, fat girl pants."
She laughs. I scowl.
So we bought a bunch of tops and the pants for the short, fat girls (apparently me), and walked out, my self-esteem battered. As we walked through the department store on the way back to the parking lot we stared at the shoes. Glorious shoes. Rows and rows of shoes that only vary half a size in any direction, no matter where they're from. Shoes that don't make me look fat, or feel bad about myself. They will never look better on another girl because she's skinnier or has a smaller butt. They won't sit in the closet and mock me because they no longer fit, or randomly shrink in the dryer and become fit for a doll.
Shoes love me. For always, no matter what. Even if I do have an extra cookie and can't fit in my pants.
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PS, there's a line in the film "In Her Shoes" about this sort of thing. The older, heavier sister has a closet full of Manolos, and when asked why, she says something like, "Shoes always fit."