A bit of advice for the blissfully ignorant.

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate to shop? I seem to be missing that shopping gene. I can shop online like a champ but braving the stores? Not so much.


So what was I, who has worn jeans and gym shoes to work almost every day for the last 20 years (give or take an aberration or two), to do when my company decided to change the dress code? Or maybe it's more like, enforce the dress code, I'm not really sure. It has always differed from department to department and mine has always been relaxed. Very.


I haven't been in a dressing room in years. Literally, unless you count waiting for my daughter to try things on and to oooh and ahhh over her selections.


There really was no choice so my daughter was nice enough to accompany me on a guerrilla shopping trip. OH the humanity! You would think that stores that are trying to sell you clothing would make the lighting and mirrors more flattering, wouldn't you? I mean - almost to the point of making them like fun-house mirrors? I would rather see the distortion than the real thing.


One time a long time ago I went bathing suit shopping with a friend of mine who was a size 3 with breast implants. I should have just shot myself in the head before I even got in the car. THIS shopping trip was worse. I cannot even describe to you my horror.


Dani was upset when I told her she needed to think more about dressing - say - Humpty Dumpty when she made her style recommendations, as opposed to dressing Stacy London. She (Dani not Stacy) is very sensitive and very much a feminist. She hates the fact that I might feel bad about myself because of what the world says I should look like. I ended up assuring her I don't hate myself, I'm way too arrogant for that. But I'm not real fond of how I look.


We soldiered on, laughing (me) so I wouldn't cry, and actually buying more work appropriate attire. I went shopping again by myself after work tonight, and all I really have to do now is get some more shoes and I will be fine for now.


Shoes. Another story entirely. My feet are like Flintstone feet. If you don't know what I mean - watch the cartoon and look at Fred and Barney's feet. Not Wilma or Betty's little Barbie feet. Look at the broad blocky feet that would qualify as a wide wheel base for a car in another life. And then picture them in some cute trendy shoes. Sigh-h-h.


Yeah, I can hear you laughing. I'll have to regale you with that shopping trip next. But in the meantime there may be a lesson to learn from this. Try to expose yourself to dressing room mirrors and shop lighting at least once every few months. Even if you don't buy anything. Stand there and look at yourself, the backs of your legs even. Gah. I know, it's hard. But at least then you won't embarrass your child when she sees you bursting into tears the first time you see what you really look like after avoiding it for so long. (Not to mention throwing yourself on the floor and screaming "WHY?!?!" and blathering on like a backward idiot. Why are you so dramatic?)


She may be permanently scarred, I'm not sure.


Please. Make the shopping I did - as painful as it was - not be in vain. Learn from my mistakes, I beg you.