2003-06-05

Here�s another bullet for my ever-lengthening list of things I can�t stand: uncomfortable clothes. Above and beyond my good taste and triple-digit IQ, that loathing alone would keep me from being one of Those Girls � the ones with the �zipper, meet asscrack; asscrack: zipper� pants and those wretched pointy-toed stiletto-heeled shoes (when did the eighties come forth from the grave to eat female brains?) and those �My Jedi powers will keep my left breast aloft!� off-the-shoulder asymmetrical tops. If my clothes are pinching and squeezing parts of me that should never be pinched or squeezed in polite company (unless Paul Bettany is performing said manhandling, of course), all is NOT RIGHT with the world. If I have tags scraping the back of my neck, seams chafing parts of my anatomy best left unmentioned, or straps hindering my circulation, nary a friendly word will cross my lips. I refuse to mince around on teetering platforms like some dour-faced geisha, or spend all day stiffly maneuvering myself in and out of chairs like a scoliosis victim lest an errant hemline wander north of the equator. Fuck that shit! Clothes are here to make ME presentable, not the other way around.

Yesterday I bought a shirt. Every once in a while I decide to make vague motions in the direction of professionalism by wearing a button-up shirt to work rather than my usual tank-top-and-cardigan getup. This usually necessitates the purchase of such a shirt, because once one has been worn and then washed, never again will it see the light of day, because Charlie Don�t Iron. Yesterday I found a snazzy button-up in brown, in such a profound state of sale the store practically paid me to take it; and at that price I didn�t bother to try it on. (I have an aversion to the whole changing-room experience, mostly due to overzealous clerks slavering after their commission like rabid dogs � one once informed me perkily, and loudly, that the shirt I was trying on made my boobs look good. Hello? Do I know you? Back away from the breasts! But I digress.) It�s a size small, which generally fits me when I�m buying T-shirts and tanks � the same sizing rules should apply to all shirts, right? Ha. In a perfect world. Putting the thing on this morning, I had to muscle the buttons closed over my apparently-freakishly-large chest, and the cuffs squeezed the shit out of my forearms. My FOREARMS! I may not quite meet the fashion world�s standards for hip malnourishment, but I don�t have fat fucking FOREARMS.

Of course, I decided to soldier on despite these encumbrances, because I just fucking bought the thing, and because despite the inappropriate girdling of my wayward bosom and forearms, darned if it don�t look pretty fucking good. Also, changing twice to go to work? Yeah, right.

My vanity and sloth have been my undoing, as they often are. I�m sitting here at my desk feeling like I�m wearing a poly-cotton blend Iron Maiden. Every time I lean forward to reach for something, I get the sensation I�m trying to jam my arm through a funnel, and I�m afraid to breathe too deeply in case the fabric across my chest decides to beat a hasty retreat into my armpits, buttons be damned.

Predictably, this is making me very cranky. I have no time for these attire-related shenanigans, no matter how fetchingly the cursed shirt is tailored at the waist. I�m used to feeling suffocated at work, but having that become a literal statement is just beyond the fucking pale. Blarg!