What I’m about to say is in no means one of those comments meant to make people say “oh, you’re not fat! You’re soooo skinny!” or anything like that. I know I’m not fat, thanks. But what I’m about to tell you is a saga of truth.
Yesterday at Zara I bought a shirt that I liked and could see myself wearing in LA next week. I didn’t try it on because I have no patience for the Flatiron store with their no hook or seat dressing rooms so I have to put my coat and my purse on the floor, and plus I was feeling extra lazy. I thought, well a MEDIUM seems like a good guess. The small looked really small, and the extra small was relatively the size of a newborn, so I thought MEDIUM IT IS. I bought it, I went to Duane Reade, I took the subway to BFE and back, and when I got home, I tried it on. I kid you not, this thing was tight. In fact, had I tried to do the YMCA I would have ripped the arms right off the bodice. I am apparently not Eurotrash enough to pull off a Zara medium. So I brought it back today, and to make sure there is not a repeat incident, I went into their stupid, unuseful dressing room with their no hooks and no seats, and put my shit on the floor, and tried on the LARGE. One would think a large might have so much extra material that it would be flapping in the wind. There was not. It fit, in the way that a semi-slutty blouse from Zara should fit (it’s impossible to see from the image on the website but it has a completely sheer back with buttons). It is, by no means, a billowy, oversized number that you could man repel in. It’s just as well that it isn’t a repeller number since it buttons up the back and I am incapable of getting it on without some help. [that’s what she said?]
Anyway. My mom wanted to know how the blouse exchange went. I wrote to her “Exchange is complete. In what world do I wear a LARGE?”
If it were the 60s, I actually probably would wear a large, since everything was made for Betty Draper and her Barbie waist and Barbie tits. You can bet your bottom dollar that no Bettys were up pumping 20lbs of iron at 5:30 every morning (I do this) so I am sure none of them had any deltoids to speak of and wearing shirts whose armholes are made for chicken legs seemed to not be much a problem. I wear a large at a store made for tall, thin Euro women who smoke cigarettes at cafés, throw drinks in people’s faces and strut around their Parisian apartments in lingerie and have illicit affairs with all their devastatingly handsome bosses and neighbors.
Ok, actually… when I put it this way, it doesn’t actually seem that absurd that I might wear a large.