Clothing Stores Guaranteed To Make You Feel Fat
Once upon a time, going shopping for new clothes was a source of joy for me. I loved the euphoric feeling I would get from finding the perfect pair of jeans or t-shirt, and I would have no issues with the way a size medium shirt would hang on my average body frame.
Unfortunately, like Elizabeth Taylor’s pulse, those days are no longer. Now entering a clothing store sends me into a shame spiraling fugue. I feel judged by the starving and emotionally distant employees, and tremble when I have to (on occasion) tell them I would like something in a large. It’s usually met with a smirk and a response along the lines of, “i’ll have to check in the back. I’m not sure if we have any.” What’s worse is when they’ll suggest a larger size to you under the guise of being helpful. They stare at your body, assessing each of your unflattering curves and say something like, “You might need a size up.” These employees are drunk on the power of retail. And I’m their normal bodied sacrificial lamb.
Below are the following stores that will make you feel like a walrus. Their sizing is the rudest—sometimes it’s even European which is doubly rude—and the store employees are the big bullies on the fashion playground. When entering these places, make sure to wear your self-esteem vest: Size XXL.
With their bizarre jazzercise ensembles and crop tops, this store is only meant to be frequented by hipsters whose sole source of nutrition is through the comment section of Hipster Runoff (R.I.P. baby). Their meals comprise of a text message, a liked comment on a blog, and a line of coke for dessert. #dark. As for the employees, they’re usually young, thin, and wearing the scarlet letter “D” for “I sucked Dov Charney’s dick so I could push gold lamé bodysuits for minimum wage.” As Jezebel once put it, “American Apparel will make you look like a fat hooker.” Seriously. Their clothes don’t look good on anyone who likes to eat, which I’m guessing is the way AA likes it.
The second I enter the intimidating doors of luxury hipster clothing haven Opening Ceremony, I magically gain ten pounds, develop five pimples, and lose six strands of my hair. To shop here is to test your self-esteem. Everyone who works here is teeny tiny, aloof, and dangerously edgy, and the sizing is a legitimate “fuck you” to anyone who’s not on the Mary-Kate meal plan. Things are shorter, narrower, and just smaller. They’re clothes for the powerful midget basically. That being said, the garments are all so precious and I would like to own the whole store.
A.P.C.’s design aesthetic seems to be inspired by malnourished sailor boys and self-conscious housewives which makes me equally obsessed and depressed. Vertical stripes adorn many of the men’s shirts, which as you may know makes you look fatter. As for the girls, there are a lot of 1950′s-style frocks (“Mommy is on quaaludes!”) that don’t do any favors for a woman’s “problem areas.” They may have back in the ’50s (women had fuller figures back then) but A.P.C. has modernized the style by making the dresses only look flattering on smaller frames. Bastards!
We can give a nice “thank you’ and “fuck you” to fashion designer Hedi Slimane for singlehandedly bringing anorexic boys back in vogue with his work as a designer at Dior. If you’re wondering why you’ve been sleeping with so many men lately who have bodies like your 12-year-old sister, you can look back to Slimane’s designs which advocated the heroin chicness of someone like Pete Doherty. As a result, men who were born with broad shoulders and thick arms were left behind in favor of a new male ideal.
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Will it feel the same when you tell me you love me over the phone? Will the peacefulness of those words still floor me from thousands of miles away?
I was conflicted. It felt like one eye was trying to look away while the other soaked it up. I felt the heat rise in my face. This was wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong.
Any nervous flyer knows the progression of descending panic: bile, sweaty palms, social awkwardness and self-induced sedation.
I know how it feels when the weight of darkness crashes down onto your chest in the middle of the night, and how you wish things would stop spinning because the axis seems tilted now. I know, love, I know.