I Hate My Clothes
10-01-2003, 01:32 AM
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I Hate My Clothes
Today I donated another never-worn shirt to charity. When I say "never" worn, I'm not counting the twenty-five times I put it on, looked in the mirror and asked myself what-the-%$%#*&-was-I-thinking when I bought it? According to the label it'* exactly my size, yet inexplicably, the puffy sleeves have enough room to smuggle Al Quaeda cells to remote mountain hideouts.
Whenever I tried on the shirt I experienced a unique blend of anger, self-loathing, and mostly: curiosity. Did the makers of this shirt ever see it worn by a human being? And if so, did that human have ordinary arms or appendages that looked like hippos trying to swallow pigs? And how did I fail to notice any of this when I tried it on in the store? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????
Yes, I could have returned the shirt. Maybe it'* a guy thing, but to me, returning a product is admitting you made a mistake. I can't take the pressure. And realistically, if I returned everything that disappointed me after I got it home, I'd be sitting in an empty house, naked, and starving. I'm a bad shopper, but I have high standards. It'* a nasty combination.
My biggest clothing horror involves work-out shorts. I've noticed at the gym that you can deduce the exact age of any man by measuring the length of his shorts. The teens wear gigantic ankle-length shorts. The twenty-somethings wear their shorts below the knee. As you escalate through the age groups, the shorts continue to get more economical. One guy at my gym is 90 and he wears shorts so tiny that when he uses a certain machine you can tell the temperature in a way too horrible to mention.
It'* a dilemma. I can buy the Speedo-sized shorts worn by everyone else my age, or I can try to be more stylish and come off looking like a guy who doesn't know how old he is. Apparently the fashion industry has decided it'* a waste of fabric to make fashionable clothes for men my age because - and here I'm putting words into their mouths -- it'* like adding a sprig of parsley to road kill.
Swiped from Dilbert Newsletter 50.0
Whenever I tried on the shirt I experienced a unique blend of anger, self-loathing, and mostly: curiosity. Did the makers of this shirt ever see it worn by a human being? And if so, did that human have ordinary arms or appendages that looked like hippos trying to swallow pigs? And how did I fail to notice any of this when I tried it on in the store? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????
Yes, I could have returned the shirt. Maybe it'* a guy thing, but to me, returning a product is admitting you made a mistake. I can't take the pressure. And realistically, if I returned everything that disappointed me after I got it home, I'd be sitting in an empty house, naked, and starving. I'm a bad shopper, but I have high standards. It'* a nasty combination.
My biggest clothing horror involves work-out shorts. I've noticed at the gym that you can deduce the exact age of any man by measuring the length of his shorts. The teens wear gigantic ankle-length shorts. The twenty-somethings wear their shorts below the knee. As you escalate through the age groups, the shorts continue to get more economical. One guy at my gym is 90 and he wears shorts so tiny that when he uses a certain machine you can tell the temperature in a way too horrible to mention.
It'* a dilemma. I can buy the Speedo-sized shorts worn by everyone else my age, or I can try to be more stylish and come off looking like a guy who doesn't know how old he is. Apparently the fashion industry has decided it'* a waste of fabric to make fashionable clothes for men my age because - and here I'm putting words into their mouths -- it'* like adding a sprig of parsley to road kill.
Swiped from Dilbert Newsletter 50.0
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