I don’t want much in life; I just want to be thin enough to go shopping and not breakdown in Topshop changing rooms crying when trying on jeans.
I don’t trust anyone who actually enjoys shopping for new clothes. For me, stocking up on new items for my wardrobe is an anxiety ridden, sweaty and stressful experience. If you’re reading thinking “Same” then you’ll be able to relate to The 5 Stages of Shopping.
We start off with good old denial. Yes, it’s not just a river in Egypt but the first stage of shopping; a state of mind that has you thinking you’re about 2 dress sizes smaller than your really are, earn 3 times more than you actually do and has you kidding yourself that you’re looking forward to your shopping trip, even going as far to claim it will be fun.
You believe you’re going to swan into Topshop, buy the first dress you try on, look flawless and then go spend the rest of the day drinking cocktails and having lunch with your mates.
Reality: You’ll get stuck in a dress in the changing rooms as you forgot to go a size up as you’re still carrying a little holiday weight, rather than splurge in Topshop you’ll be praying your card payment goes through in Primark and you’ll be finishing off the day in Wetherspoons as the only kind of cocktail you can afford is half a lager with a splash of lime cordial in it.
“When did every dress suddenly have to have chunks cut out of the middle? Why? Just why? Who wants to see my muffin top?” you wonder to yourself. “And why the fuck anything half decent and within my budget only available in a size 0 or size 30?”
You don’t even bother going in Forever 21 as you can’t face the heartbreak of finding the perfect outfit only to turn it around to see it has something like “Let me gargle your jizz” plastered across the back in sequins.
You’re seething. You send out a string of angry tweets while stood outside a shop chain smoking and messaging the group chat “Having a fucking nightmare in town. Everything is shit. I don’t even want to come if I don’t find something.”
You’ve found something that fits. Kinda. It zips up okay? Sure, it takes a lot of breathing in and your friend helping for it to do so but if it zips, it fits.
“Maybe it will look better with control pants?” You tell yourself. It’s probably the changing room lights isn’t it? You’ll look far better at home when you’ve done your make up and tanned a bit.
Reality check: If your reflection is knocking you sick then control pants, while they’re good, aren’t miracle workers and even the best MUAs in the world can only make your face thinner, not the rest of your body. If it looks hideous in the shop, it won’t look that much better at home – no matter how many deals you try cut with God about drinking loads of green tea before going out or something.
It’s now 4pm. You’re meant to be in the taxi out by 9pm. You’re panicking. You’re in Matalan of all places, nearly crying. Why are you in Matalan? Well, you wanted an ego boost when trying on one of their size 10 dresses and being swamped in it and hopefully find an outfit too but the thing is, everything is vile and has jazzy “Facebook Wine O’clock Mum who shares if she agrees” vibes.
You have a little sit down on the changing room floors, exhausted, and eat the bag of Haribo you bought from by the tills in Primark earlier when buying your control pants that are going to make you appear 4 sizes smaller.
Oh fuck it. You can’t be arsed anymore – you go home and put on the same trusty Little Black Dress that you’ve worn for the last 2 nights out. Just change your accessories, avoid being tagged in pictures and spend the money you would have forked out for on a new outfit on more ale instead.
You were only going to ruin anything you bought anyway when sitting on the club toilet’s floor at 3am having a heart to heart with 4 of your mates squashed into one cubicle.
Next time though, online shopping.