Some may call this a rant, I prefer to call it a release…
Changings rooms? Shaming rooms more like. I do not appreciate being shoehorned into a space so small when I bend over my rear end pops out of the curtain for all to see. I do not appreciate your silly inadequate hooks, incapable of holding the 3 sizes of everything I was forced to bring with me because this shop’s idea of what my size is, translated into material, quite honestly astounds me. It’s like pot luck, some cruel game designed to lower your self esteem further, I’m sure someone is watching and laughing as the garment gets closer to your body and visibly, inexplicably, shrinks, until the slouchy gypsy top I first picked up has become no more than a pocket hankie.
I do not appreciate your mocking posters, as I undress myself it is bad enough having to look at my odd, ill-fitting undies from 3 whole new angles, but to then be surrounded by bronzed beauties, cavorting on some desert island, cocktail in hand, apparently having the time of their life, taunting me with their lump and bump free bodies, attractively dusted with golden sand, the closest I have come to this in recent years was a few weeks back, on a windy Cornish beach, looking considerably less bronzed, when one of my lovely girls came and dumped their bucket of wet, sloppy sand onto my stomach, just as I had finally relaxed, found a position I was reasonably comfortable in and feeling the least whale like as was possible, given the binge eating crap cycle I seem to be stuck in at the moment. I bet they won’t be using that image for their next summer campaign!
I do not appreciate the music, whilst I am bending over to do up my sandal, residing myself to the fact this was yet another miserable waste of time, that they only make clothes for that other kind of person, the one you are not, I do not want some American twit telling me to ‘work my ass’ or asking me to ‘slide up and down’ their body because I’m ‘worth it’. I’m worth a lot more than you will ever know mate and I HAVE been working my ass off, running after 2 small people who have more demands than any superstar rapper could ever dream up, I work it every day, 24/7.
To finish it all off, as I emerge from the miniature upright coffin, sweating, laden down with my failed purchases, I am greeted by a girl who looks at me as though I’m on day release from some secure unit, a mixture of sympathy, fear and relief that she is not me, taking the mountain of clothes from me whilst commiserating that ‘NONE of them right then sweety?’ Head cocking to the side as she looks me up and down.
No they fucking aren’t and your changing rooms suck and off I go, reassuring myself that it’s ok, my children will think it’s quite cool when Mummy starts wearing bin liners for clothing.