What fresh hell is this? Part One: Comfort or style? You choose

You know, I hate going to the mall to go shopping. I know what you're thinking: Stop the presses! A woman who doesn't like to shop at the mall! The sky is falling!

Well, calm down, Chicken Little. It's not the end of the world. I'm even willing to wager a carton of cigarettes that there are a number of male readers that are just wishing their ladies would have the same sentiments. It's not that I don't like shopping. It's just that I hate shopping in that claustrophobic hell of gaping teenagers, human traffic jams, awful instrumentals of forgettable songs, obnoxiously overbearing salespeople (or salespeople that can't get off the phone long enough to ring you up) and the horrific lack of stores that are of any interest to anyone over the age of 12. In fact, I hate it so much that this is going to be a multi-article rant, as I have way too much to say about this excruciating experience. So for starters, let me talk to you about the ordeal of a 35-year-old woman trying to shop for clothes in a world of teenage glorification.

Here's an example of a typical clothes shopping day at the mall for me: I go to the mall (pick any mall, as this scenario, I'm sure, will be played out equally well at any mall across the United States) to do some shopping. My problem is that malls seem to cater only to teens that are trying desperately to emulate Paris Hilton or some other over-hyped tart of the week, or their favorite gangsta rapper. So, I bravely venture into a store called Forever 21. First, the store name should have been a screaming dead giveaway that this was NOT the store where I'll find what I was looking for. I may be Forever 21 in my mind, but my body has had a completely different idea these past 14 years. But I wanted to try to spruce up my wardrobe with a few more trendy items for when I decide to hit the town with friends. So I wander aimlessly for about 30 minutes through the unending displays of tank tops with sequins. That's all they had as far as shirts go. Tank tops with sequins. One thousand variations of the same thing, in all the colors of the rainbow, and quite a few Mother Nature couldn't have dreamed up on a bad acid trip. When I finally find something that looks like it might have some type of sleeve, I'm disappointed to note that not one thing on that rack is of a neutral, earth tone color. Mainly, I'm looking for black or brown. Maybe if I'm feeling adventurous, I might pick up navy blue or tan. There are even those rare moments of wild abandon that I'll choose something in red. But not one of these colors was to be found in this store. Every single item in that store looked like it had been washed with a bag of Skittles. I thought maybe I might try a couple on anyway to see if maybe I should be broadening my horizons a bit in the color department.

So off I go to the dressing room. Knowing that I'm not exactly the smallest woman, I decided that a couple of shirts in an XL would be appropriate. After struggling in vain to button up the first shirt, I give up. Maybe I picked up the wrong size by mistake. The next shirt, a stretchy pullover, must have been accidentally shrunk then returned to the store. Frustrated, I try the third shirt. I found myself in the embarrassing situation where your arms are pinned up in the air in a shirt that just won't pull down because it's way too tight, and because it's over your head you can't see which way is up, and you can't bend your elbows to pull it off because your arms are permanently bound in the upright position from the wrists down. What the fuck? Did they mislabel the hangers? There's no way any of these are an XL.

When I do manage to extricate myself from the last shirt, I look at the tags in the back of the shirts. "XL." Bullshit. This has to be wrong. So I put my clothes back on and go back out to the rack and do a size comparison between the XS and the XL. There is maybe a half inch difference all around between the two. What the hell? They are THE SAME SIZE! I look around the store in disbelief. Don't they make clothes anymore for women that have tits? Then it hits me: I'm a WOMAN. These clothes are for GIRLS. Pre-pubescent girls with a body profile cut out of a Pringles chip, to be exact. This shit is definitely not for someone with a "nicely rounded-out" shape. This damn store should be called Forever 12. I think their sign people fucked up. If I was their manager, I would complain and get them to come back and fix it so as to avoid any further confusion.

So I leave that embarrassment behind me in an attempt to find a store where an XL is really an XL. The only problem now is that all the stores that cater to "women" instead of "girls" look like they believe all "women" to be no younger than 55-years-old. Yeah, the clothes fit better, but I'll be damned if I didn't look like a never-been-married librarian with 30 cats. Even more frustrated, I go off to Express, where they actually have what looks like older women in their advertisements. (Older meaning that ambiguous look where the model could be either 25 or 27-years-old, but god forbid if she's older! If she is, it's off to Chadwick's catalogs for her!) I venture in and see a lot of what I like but am a bit put out to realize there is not one XL shirt in the store. Also, none of their pants come in a petite size. (For those of the non-female species, in the clothing world "petite" does not mean tiny. It means that your inseam is short. Very short.) I ask a saleslady for help in finding an XL shirt in a style I really liked. She looks me up and down (oh, yes, ladies and gentlemen, she gave me the once over) and snottily states, "We don't carry XL."

What the fuck? Did this toothpick with badly penciled eyebrows and too-red lipstick just insult me? I mumble my thanks as I beat a hasty retreat to the friendlier territory of a strategically placed Starbucks across from that infernal hell-hole cleverly disguised as a women's clothing store. I swore I could hear her and her cocaine-diet-plan cohorts giggling like rabid hamsters behind me.

While nursing my bruised and battered ego over a venti skim chai, I determined that I was going to start my own clothing line called "T&A – Clothing for Women with Tits and Ass." I was going to have trendy clothes that made you feel young and sexy and that actually fit over the body of a grown woman that has given birth at least once, and it wasn't going to be that deplorably awful "older chic" of such stores as Chico's and Talbot's. No siree, Bob. It was going to be a mix of Hot Topic, Torrid and New York & Co. with a bit of trash thrown in for good measure. (Because we all know how much I love a little bit of trash every now and then.) And in my stores, there will be absolutely no annoying half-naked displays of impossibly perfect mannequins and overly loud, bouncy music like at Abercrombie & Fitch. I hate that store with a passion. If you wear Abbie Fitch, stop reading this article right now, turn off your computer and shoot yourself in the head. You're a moron. And what parent in their right mind would let their teenager shop in a store like that? Those morons should be shot too. And people look at me funny because I let Juliana wear clothes from Hot Topic. Bitch, please.

So what do you say ladies? You with me on this one? Or are you happy trying to squeeze your body into an outfit that makes you look like 20 pounds of sausage forced into a 10 pound casing? And, before anyone thinks that I'm knocking skinny girls, I'm not. God bless them, I'm still trying to be one. My daughter is one, and she's beautiful. But the last time I checked, most men (not boys) liked their women (not girls) with a little more tits and ass. Guys, am I right on this one? Feel free to let me know.

Next Episode: The joys of navigating mall traffic (inside the mall).

When Marie is not trying to fit into shirts that are so tight that they make her tits look like a speed bump, she enjoys fine dining, spending time at Starbucks and cooking. Which is probably why she can't fit into the clothes she was complaining about to begin with. Contact her at poisongirl@hobotrashcan.com.