Now I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m going to start off with several, amusing stories about trying on swimsuits. Well, forget it. I gave up squeezing into those unforgiving, little body suits in my teen years. I take great pains to avoid seeing my cellulite. Why make the patrons at the public pool a captive audience to it? It was tempted to try on a few suits just for this article. Then I took a short nap and the feeling quickly passed. Not even the return of the skirted look was enough to sway me. Until they make swimsuits with sleeves, count me out.

Another thing I’ve religiously avoided over the past few years is trying on a dress. I personally have nothing against them; I simply hate drafts. You can’t just wear a dress by itself either. Pantyhose have to enter into the equation, as does a slip. Basically, a slip is a dress made out of fabric you can’t see through so you can wear it under a dress that’s made out of fabric you can see through.

As for pantyhose, they’re just crazy. At some point in history, it was decided that women needed netting for their legs. My favorite color is nude. It makes perfect sense to wear clothes that look like you’re not wearing clothes. These go really well with my Saran Wrap shorts and my sandwich bag shoes.

Consider the bizzare sizing too. Queen size? Apparently this measurement is left over from when we were still under British rule. (Her royal highness must’ve been a little on the husky side.) Not that sizes matter. Pantyhose never fit properly. What’s with the crotch that won’t go any higher than your knees? I can pull that waistband up high enough to give my bra a boost, but that crotch doesn’t budge. Not much for comfort. However, that extra space does make handy storage for your keys and wallet when you’re all dressed up and don’t feel like carrying a purse.

One type of clothing that should fit right are shoes. Back in the day, someone would bring you the shoes, put them on for you and then ask you where your toes were. Nowadays, all I get is a padded bench in the middle of a warehouse. What’s the world coming to when no one cares where your toes are anymore? What’s even worse is the absence of those metal contraptions with all the little sliders that calculate your exact foot size.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a slide rule to measure all of our body parts? If I could go to the store and measure my thighs with a protractor before trying on pants, it would make life a lot easier. In case you haven’t noticed, the sizes on women’s clothes make absolutely no sense whatsoever. There are laws for better labeling on food. Why can’t the government force clothing manufacturers to at least be consistent with their sizes?

Men’s sizes aren’t terribly difficult. Sometimes they’re a bit odd though. For instance, one time I wanted to buy some button-up shirts for my dad. I asked him what size he wore and he gave me his neck size. Huh? What does neck size have to do with anything? Now, I can think of several reasons why a woman might want to measure a man’s neck, but none of them pertain to clothing purchases.

Men’s pants sizes, on the other hand, make perfect sense. Size 32 means just that -- 32 inches. If a man’s waist is 46 inches around, a size 32 should snug up nicely under his gut. Simple.

What does a size 32 mean in women’s pants? Apparently, there’s a complex mathematical formula involved. Take your waist size, multiply by seven, subtract your height, divide by two, add your weight, convert fahrenheight to celsius and you have it. And that’s just for Wal-Mart®. Go to Target® and you need to know the dimensions of an isosceles triangle and how it relates to wind gusts.

One of the worst things to shop for is a bra. Again, you have a very tricky measuring system. It starts out logically enough. A tape measure will help you figure the exact number of inches around. But after that, you’re left with cup sizes. It’s highly unlikely there’s any real precision there. How about just using that nifty water-volume trick we learned in science? Fill a small tub with an exact amount of water, let me dunk them in and someone can measure the amount of water that slops over the side. Instead of a D cup, I can just look for the bra that holds 24 oz.

One alternative would be to go to a more upscale store and make an appointment with a fitter. Yeah, right. Shopping is traumatic enough for me without being felt up by some old, german woman named Olga. I’ll take my chances in the dressing room, standing half-naked in front of the mirror wondering if there’s a hidden camera telecasting my sagging breasts to a bank of television monitors back in the security guards’ station.

Speaking of which, I don’t really understand dressing rooms. Yes, I get the part about keeping people from disrobing in the middle of the store. But who designed these rooms? They’re like little funhouses; mirrors everywhere. I can see my rear end from five different angles. Trust me. One angle is one angle too many. The fluorescent lighting is so perfect -- if you have fangs and you’re trying on a black cape. It does me no good to know how clothes would look on me after I’ve been dead for 24 hours. How about just a hand mirror and a little candlelight?

Let’s face it ladies. Clothing is a crucial part of our lives. Otherwise, we wouldn’t endure the indignities that come with obtaining it. Whether our bodies are measured in inches, cups or royalty, we’ll bravely face up to the zippers that don’t quite make it all the way up and buttons that don’t come close to the buttonholes. I, myself, am not a big fashion freak, but I do value clothing on many other levels. It keeps me warm, it shields me from the elements, it sucks in my lower back fat and most importantly, it spares me from having to see 99% of the world’s population naked. You just can’t beat that.

Back to Top

© Beth Wiesemann. No portion of this article may be reproduced without the author's permission.