It's hard to believe that I'll be 35 tomorrow. When I was a kid—and even in my early twenties—35 sounded ridiculously "grown up," and 40 seemed positively ancient. Yet here I am, feeling perfectly fine about the milestone.
I probably wouldn't be making much of a fuss about it at all, except that we're going on a cruise in a couple of weeks and my birthday is a convenient justification to go out and shop for some new clothes (hey, I'll shamelessly take any excuse I can get).
I haven't been out shopping for myself in positively ages, so I decided to do it right. I found a babysitter and reserved an entire morning to go out to a local strip mall, my primary mission being to find beachy, sexy clothes to wear on our upcoming vacation.
When I arrived at the shopping center, I was disappointed to find that I'd been "out of the game" for so long that most of the stores weren't there any more. But I spotted one trendy shop still in business, so I headed that direction and told myself the trip would still be a great success.
As I neared the store, I caught a glimpse of the displays and stopped in my tracks. The establishment had turned to the Dark Side—it had become a "hoochie shop."
Unidentifiable hip-hop music pulsed from within the store, where headless mannequins modeled scraps of fabric that didn't seem to serve any particular purpose. Sequined bras and transparent lace leotards hung proudly in the windows, and neon posters shouted in capital letters that the clothes were "ALWAYS ON SALE!! $19.99 OR LESS!! (some more)."
I warily crossed the threshold (I had come too far to turn back now) and was instantly sized up by an employee. She looked me up and down, scowled at my frumpy yoga pants and ratty tee shirt stained with unidentifiable child goo, rolled her eyes dismissively and walked off in search of someone who might actually buy something.
I couldn't decide whether I should be offended or glad.
I probably would have just turned around and left then, but a little devil appeared on my shoulder, urging me to look around. After all, it reasoned, there might be something worthwhile hidden in the back. I acquiesced and ventured deeper into the store.
Upon passing a rack of clingy dresses with giant cutouts in the sides, a little angel appeared on my other shoulder and shouted, "I just don't understand what kids are wearing these days!"
I was immediately shocked that this thought had popped into my head—when had I become such a stick-in-the mud? I told the angel to shut up and stop making me feel old, and the devil on the other shoulder gave me a high-five and asserted that I was damn sexy and could pull off any of the outfits in the store.
Well, except perhaps this one...even the little devil said "WTF?" when it saw this.
This just seems like a waste of a perfectly good security tag.
I gaped at the fluorescent orange "dress" for a couple of minutes—as if
staring at it would miraculously
cause it to make sense—then I shook my head, walked away, and ran smack into a display of bedazzled bras. 
Is it just me, or does this bra seem to already have nipples on it?
(poorly placed, too)
(poorly placed, too)
The devil immediately fired back, reassuring me that I could definitely wear one of those if I was in the right environment (although the devil neglected to say what that environment might be).
The internal debate was making my head spin, and it was unclear which side was winning.
Hoping things would improve, I continued deeper into the store. When I rounded a corner and came upon garments that I thought were tube tops but were actually skirts, the angel angrily yelled, Where's the rest of that skirt?
The devil kicked it and and accused me of turning into my mother.
I was getting a headache and finally decided it was time to leave, so I lifted my chin, threw my shoulders back, and proudly marched out the door. I thought I caught a glimpse of an employee laughing at me as I left, but then the little devil told me that I was being stupid and ordered me to get my head out of my ass.
Back in the parking lot, I was unsure of what to do next. I didn't have a lot of time left, so after some consideration, I decided to hit my "standby store"— Ross Dress for Less. It's my default for finding shoes and dresses on the cheap.
I wandered in and immediately felt my stress evaporate. No one was glaring at me or sizing me up; in fact, I'm pretty sure they're trained to ignore you in that store unless you're urinating on the bedding or shooting meth in the toy department.
I zeroed in on a rack of summery dresses, picked up several—along with some cute denim shorts and a few breezy tops—and headed for the fitting rooms.
Now, in my humble opinion, whoever designed the dismal lighting in fitting rooms should be shot. I don't know how women can be expected to buy anything when our bodies look like lumpy masses of tapioca pudding in front of those giant mirrors.
I usually prepare myself for this when I go out shopping—so as not to be horrified when I finally disrobe—but it had been quite a while since I had really shopped for myself, and the disturbing effect when I tried on the dresses caught me off guard.
Every lump was magnified; every roll was brought into sharp relief. Thighs that would probably look fine in normal lighting appeared to be coated in cottage cheese under those horrible fluorescents. I found myself discarding one garment after another in frustration.
It didn't help that the devil on my shoulder was hurling insults at me, blaming me for letting my body get this way and insisting that I do something about it, pronto. The angel was disturbingly silent.
I sadly brought the garments back out of the fitting room and handed the entire lot to the attendant. I didn't have time to try anything else on, but I didn't want the trip to be a total failure, so I decided to swing by the shoe department on my way out to see if anything appealed to me. After all, at least my feet weren't too disgusting.
As I crossed the store, I spotted this highly airbrushed ass staring at me from a box in the health and beauty section.
I went over to take a closer look.
On the front of the package, shiny letters announced that the cream inside would smooth skin and banish cellulite. I was intrigued...after the close-up view of my cottage-cheese thighs in the fitting room, I was just about desperate enough to try anything. I picked up the box and turned it over in my hands.
The
instructions stated that the cream should be applied liberally to all
areas that need slimming. It went on to suggest some areas, just in case you were legally blind or couldn't think of any yourself. I did the mental math and realized that,
for best results, I would
probably have to fill a bathtub with the cream and soak in it every day for a month.
That seemed rather impractical.
In fact, I doubted that the discount cream would do anything at all, but the devil on my shoulder was jumping up and down excitedly and shouting that I should buy it, so I set my jaw and purposefully marched to the checkout with my bottle of miracle cellulite cream in hand. The angel hung her head in shame as I paid the six dollars and ninety-seven cents for the product.
That seemed rather impractical.
In fact, I doubted that the discount cream would do anything at all, but the devil on my shoulder was jumping up and down excitedly and shouting that I should buy it, so I set my jaw and purposefully marched to the checkout with my bottle of miracle cellulite cream in hand. The angel hung her head in shame as I paid the six dollars and ninety-seven cents for the product.
As the cashier bagged up my purchase, it occurred to me that I had hit a new low; not only had I failed to find anything flattering for my cruise; I had actually bought myself discount cellulite cream for my birthday...and I'd been excited about it.
Perhaps I should have just gone to the spa.
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