Yesterday I had to visit two of the places that will be dressing me for the upcoming fashion show for charity. The first place went pretty well; it was noted that I am the "curviest" girl in the show, and the shortest, which is great because at 5'2 and size six I am not tipping scales but still. Sheesh. I was releived when the first vintage dress I tried on, in a size eleven, fit like a glove. I looked like something out of a Doris Day movie. It is floor length with an empire waste, very tailored, and lace over the whole dress. I was happy to realize that I wouldn't have to lose any weight to wear it. The yellow doesn't wash me out and in relation to whatever else they might have me in I was pleased to have the opportunity to glam it up retro style. Yeah. Well. That was before mention of thigh high black patent leather boots, cutting the bottom off of the dress and various other travesties to fashion.
Yesterday, as it turns out, was not such a good day.
After my visit to the vintage clothing purveyor I had to swing by what I will now affectionately call the stripper shop of hell. Conveniently located in the drug district, ironically sharing a store front with boy scouts of America, I wandered into the shop only to be greeted by a two year old. And no one else. The shop owners (I think) were in the back, doing something illegal, leaving me with a small child in a store surrounded by latex and 8 inch high heels. Finally a surly woman about my age, but much worse for the wear, came out to the front and looked me up and down like I was useless to her. The woman has no interest in me, wasn't sure I would be "comfortable" in her clothes and said I should try to come back in a month or something, whatever. I left as the two year old was running laps around the store and the mom (?) disappeared into the back. At least she didn't make me try anything on.
By this point I was feeling rather stupid. Who am I kidding? I mean yes, I'm not getting any younger, and this is the year of doing things different, but the looks in the eyes of everyone I'd met so far blatantly said "You aren't 19, you aren't skinny, and you're too old for this. You are kinda sad." I figured that I was just being hypersensitive and decided to not think about any of it. I've been cleaning out even more of my closet recently and came across stacks of size 0-2 jeans with the tags still on them. My vintage size eleven self hauled them, along with stacks of other twee clothes, to a second hand store that takes in quality clothing and pays you a few bucks for each piece. As my last stop of the day I went back to the store to collect whatever clothes they didn't want and perhaps a few dollars. The size eight behind the counter, in all of her dumb seventeen year old glory, said that they wouldn't be taking any of the clothes because the jeans were too high wasted and the shirts were too short, but tell my daughter better luck next time.
I'm 26 for fuck's sake.
I felt like smacking that little bitch around.
I deposited the clothes in a charity bin and went home.
I'm hopelessly out of style.
I hate all of the current style.
And because I'm no longer 19 I am apparently no longer a viable member of society.
Fuck. This. Shit.
I nice fitting pair of jeans and a cute new pair of boots would probably make me feel better but I'm in total and complete financial ruin and can't even afford to go get myself a gallon of milk today. I'm pretty miserable today too.
But as far as I can tell I'm still in the show. Thursday I go for more fittings. If I don't slash my wrists first.