If the dress fits . . . or doesn't
Mark and I have a wedding to go on Saturday, and since five years and one size have passed since I last donned a cocktail dress, I had no choice but to buy one.
So off I went at lunch to Loehmann's, which is my most favorite place to find fabulous clothing on the cheap. But, much to my surprise, the pickings were slim and I wasn't having much luck. Finally, I found a cute little Vera Wang dress in the Back Room (where all the really good designer stuff is). It was an adorable champagne colored satin dress with an A-line skirt and empire waist. The tag indicated it was a size 6 and best of all? It was well under $100.
Into the fitting room I went. I don't know if you've ever shopped at Loehmann's, but it has one of those really dreadful communal fitting rooms. In other words, if the pants you're trying on give you huge muffin top? Everyone in the room gets to experience that with you. Can't zip that skirt? The skinny teenage girl in the corner will definitely see that and snicker (bitch). For most of us, it is quite possibly one of the most unhappy places on earth.
So there I was with my small pile of dresses. The first couple fit, but weren't flattering. Then I got to my Vera Wang find, which I was already convinced was The One. I had visions of sipping cocktails and whirling about the dance floor in it, and in let me tell you - I looked fabulous.
I slid the dress up over my hips and slipped my arms through the spaghetti straps. But, instead of seeing the fabulous vision I hoped, the dress looked all wrong. The shoulder straps sat too close to my neck and the empire waist, which was circled by a lovely line of cream ribbon, seemed to cut straight across my nipples.
Huh. This doesn't look right, I thought. I bet it will be fine once I zip it.
I reached back and started pulling on the zipper. It went up to just about the top of my underwear and then wouldn't budge. I pulled the zipper harder, contorting and yanking on the back of the dress, but the zipper wasn't going up another notch. And then I realized with utter horror that this dress, a size 6, a dress that should surely be able to close around my body, wasn't even close to fitting. Not even close. Not in a million years. Not even if I had half my ribs removed.
And that's when the silent swearing started.
Fucking fashion designers and their fucking size double zero models, I thought as I pulled the dress off. What the hell are they trying to prove by cutting these clothes so fucking small? Don't they realize no one wants to buy clothes three sizes bigger than they are? That's why the Gap invented vanity sizing. FUCKERS!
Still cursing, I grabbed the hanger and started re-hanging the dress, all visions of my fabulousness seeping into the room's cheap, industrial carpet. And that's when I saw it. Right there on the label. Three little words that changed everything: Flower. Girl. Dress.
Flower Girl Dress? What the hell? Are you telling me I just embarrassed myself and had my self-esteem knocked down about 48 pegs because I was trying to put a CHILD'S dress on my body?
Well that's just fucking great. What genius sales person at Loehmann's put that dress with the adult clothing? I have no idea, but I bet she's a size double zero with a proportionate number of brain cells to match. Where ever she is, I suggest she keeps that job because any where else will eat her alive.
Oh, and in case you're curious, I did end up finding a very nice black silk dress by Nicole Miller. Also under $100 and an ADULT size six. And I looked fabulous.
So off I went at lunch to Loehmann's, which is my most favorite place to find fabulous clothing on the cheap. But, much to my surprise, the pickings were slim and I wasn't having much luck. Finally, I found a cute little Vera Wang dress in the Back Room (where all the really good designer stuff is). It was an adorable champagne colored satin dress with an A-line skirt and empire waist. The tag indicated it was a size 6 and best of all? It was well under $100.
Into the fitting room I went. I don't know if you've ever shopped at Loehmann's, but it has one of those really dreadful communal fitting rooms. In other words, if the pants you're trying on give you huge muffin top? Everyone in the room gets to experience that with you. Can't zip that skirt? The skinny teenage girl in the corner will definitely see that and snicker (bitch). For most of us, it is quite possibly one of the most unhappy places on earth.
So there I was with my small pile of dresses. The first couple fit, but weren't flattering. Then I got to my Vera Wang find, which I was already convinced was The One. I had visions of sipping cocktails and whirling about the dance floor in it, and in let me tell you - I looked fabulous.
I slid the dress up over my hips and slipped my arms through the spaghetti straps. But, instead of seeing the fabulous vision I hoped, the dress looked all wrong. The shoulder straps sat too close to my neck and the empire waist, which was circled by a lovely line of cream ribbon, seemed to cut straight across my nipples.
Huh. This doesn't look right, I thought. I bet it will be fine once I zip it.
I reached back and started pulling on the zipper. It went up to just about the top of my underwear and then wouldn't budge. I pulled the zipper harder, contorting and yanking on the back of the dress, but the zipper wasn't going up another notch. And then I realized with utter horror that this dress, a size 6, a dress that should surely be able to close around my body, wasn't even close to fitting. Not even close. Not in a million years. Not even if I had half my ribs removed.
And that's when the silent swearing started.
Fucking fashion designers and their fucking size double zero models, I thought as I pulled the dress off. What the hell are they trying to prove by cutting these clothes so fucking small? Don't they realize no one wants to buy clothes three sizes bigger than they are? That's why the Gap invented vanity sizing. FUCKERS!
Still cursing, I grabbed the hanger and started re-hanging the dress, all visions of my fabulousness seeping into the room's cheap, industrial carpet. And that's when I saw it. Right there on the label. Three little words that changed everything: Flower. Girl. Dress.
Flower Girl Dress? What the hell? Are you telling me I just embarrassed myself and had my self-esteem knocked down about 48 pegs because I was trying to put a CHILD'S dress on my body?
Well that's just fucking great. What genius sales person at Loehmann's put that dress with the adult clothing? I have no idea, but I bet she's a size double zero with a proportionate number of brain cells to match. Where ever she is, I suggest she keeps that job because any where else will eat her alive.
Oh, and in case you're curious, I did end up finding a very nice black silk dress by Nicole Miller. Also under $100 and an ADULT size six. And I looked fabulous.
Labels: Shopping from Hell, Venting
posted by Kimberly at
10:03 PM
2 Comments:
Oh my god! I'm laughing with you. Really.
Because that sounds like something I would do.
LOL that is toooo funny! Kinda like at TJ Maxx where the dots on the hangers are the same color for size 2 and size 12, only funnier 'cause you faced it in front of everyone else in the fitting room! Glad you got a great dress anyway. I gotta check that place out!
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