A couple of nervous breakdowns later, and after I realized that the July Birthday Curse would likely strike again, I figured I needed to come up with a Plan B for my birthday.
(for those of you unfamiliar with the July Birthday Curse, I imagine that it’s very similar to the Middle of December Birthday Curse, in that it SOUNDS like it’s a lovely time to be born, until you realize that no one is actually around to celebrate it with you, ever because something else is always going on. Or maybe it’s just me and no one likes me. Which is entirely possible.
Plus, you never get to bring cuppity-cakes to school, which is kind of like torture when you’re a kid and those things MATTER, yo.)
Vegas is going to wait until Fall or Winter because I’ll be dipped in pigshit before I roll over and accept that my birthday doesn’t need to be celebrated with a BIG ASS PARTY with my friends and glitz and glamor or maybe just Vegas (hint, hint, you’re all invited, Pranksters).
So Plan B was to go shopping, which sounds about as thrilling as dry toast, I know, but it was very necessary. Like half of The Internet, I’m going to that big thing in NYC in a couple of weeks, and thanks to a couple of children and a disappearing then slooooooowly reappearing waistline, I’m stuck in the limbo of What The Fuck Size Am I, Anyway? hell.
But I am a vain bitch, and even though this is a WRITING conference, which means that I should show up in what I when I write, which is no pants, I figure that public decency laws dictate I try and find something to swaddle my dimply butt. And rather than just shrug my shoulders, estimate, and order online, which is what I’d normally do when I’m too damn busy to drag the crotch parasites to the mall, I knew I’d have to face the fully dressed masses and try on clothes.
Nothing better to celebrate my 30th year than to face a little public humiliation, right?
So, after already tapping out H&M, where I’d decided what I’ve always thought about H&M: there are some semi-cute things in the piles of hideousness, I returned to Mecca. The Homeland. The Place Where Everyone Pretends To Know My Name To Separate Me From My AMEX.
And first, upon entering, I see what is sure to be full of the win!
Their Free People line, which is highly adorable, funky, and sequined. I make a beeline for it, and just as I pick up something like this…
I glance to the price tag. For something that I was planning to use SPECIFICALLY for the conference, because I do not intend to be this fat for much longer, I certainly am not about to spend $140.
Plus, and even more discouraging, there’s absolutely no room for el boobs. My children, who have also left me with some wicked grey hair, have also given me a considerable rack. This shirt runs to a Medium, and is designed for a waif.
My feelings are immediately crushed and I nearly cried into the shirt until the hovering salesperson snatched it from my hand.
So, Free People, you are dead to Your Aunt Becky (and sweet JESUS it hurts me to write that).
Figuring I’d probably have a better time in the Women’s Department, I headed upstairs, marveling at how much shopping at Nordies made me feel home again and how fucking HAPPY I was to be out of MATERNITY clothes. No more elastic-waisted pants for me, I cried to myself as I rode the escalator upstairs! No more clothes designed by tent-makers!
I WOULD NO LONGER LOOK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING GRIMACE!
I nearly leapt off the escalator as I reached the Floor Of Women’s Stuff and looked around happily. Certainly, HERE I’d find some of the clothes I could wear!
As I made my way jubilantly around the loop, I kept looking for the section that would scream, “It’s Aunt Becky, Bitch!” as I passed the row of formal dresses (oh hail no), the row of plus sizes, and the row of yachting clothes (um, I’m on a motherfucking boat?). There were business clothes, pant suits, and Ralph Lauren as far as my eye could see.
Finally, I stopped at the William Rast (Justin Timberlake’s clothing line) display and stared, open mouth in horror.
Where the fuck were all the clothes I would buy?
Sensing my plight, a twig of a girl popped over to me and asked if she could help me and before I could stop myself I blurted out, “Where the hell are all the non-butt-ugly clothes?”
She didn’t laugh, she stared at me, confused.
I backtracked, because she clearly didn’t understand. “I mean, NONE of these look like ANYTHING I’d want to wear. I need SOMETHING to wear.”
She laughed uncomfortably as she led me to what she called the more “youthful” section. Apparently “youthful” is all in context, because I couldn’t see someone under 65 wearing anything she showed me.
It was all wooden embellishments:
Or metal studs:
I was aghast.
I got out of maternity clothes and got back into normal clothes so I could look like a wanna-be biker or a pseudehippie? My PARENTS were real hippies, and I’ll swear, Pranksters, hippies don’t spend $80 on a tank top.
Dejectedly, mumbling about the “good old days” I made my way over to Anthropologie and bought some hair clips to comfort myself.
Here’s hoping the 80’s fashion resurgence passes soon. And those damn kids get off my lawn. I have some Murder She Wrote to watch.