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Mystery: The Art of Shopping
by Young Geoffrey Dow
Shopping, as is well-known, is the Art by which wealthy Westerners in the early 20th Century most oftem entertain themselves.
As Woman gains ascendancy in an age where Man's influence wanes - the Hunter, become anachronism; the Gatherer, become Queen - it behooved me to make another effort to "get with the times" (as might have been said by someone hip 20 or 30 years ago - leave it be).
More than one acquaintances has suggested Shopping as a means of both distracting myself from my new-found singledom and of providing myself a high that, for once, involves neither a still nor an underground greenhouse.
"Buy yourself some nice clothes!" rang the chorus and so it was, today - after many false starts - I found myself entring the remarkably unprepossing doors of historic The Hudson Bay store at the corner of streets Queen and Bay.
Immediately upon ascent of a short flight of stairs, I found myself made small amongst endless displays of a curious undergament known as "jockey shorts", or just "jockeys".
Jockeys seem a most peculiar undergarment, excessive. Not only do they clearly do the job (though I confess to wondering at its necessity, outside of a playing field), providing a snug pouch into which one's manhood may be comfortably cocooned, but they also fully cover not only the buttocks but also a goodly stretch of thigh in the bargain.
Having grown up swimming naked, even a pair of Speedos strikes me as too much coverage; and having gone bareback lo several decades now, I attempted to move swiftly past the briefs.
But I found myself distracted, indeed stopped, by rack upon wrack of bath-robes and pyjamas.
Now, it is true I no longer have a pair of pyjamas, but it is still summer and I do have a rather nice robe I call my own, since it is my own, a gift from my Sainted Mother.
With an effort of will, I pulled myself from the display of night-clothes and moved on, in pursuit of my intended prey. (And here perhaps, is where my failure began; for is not the true pleasure in Shopping to be found in the search, and not in the finding?
I did not search. I barely noticed the hoisery displayed between myself and the Men's Casual department. And there I found myself at sea.
Pants, pants, everywhere!
But nary a pair
To try on.
I was overwhelmed. I looked at Dockers (so many Dockers, so many kinds of them!), and - well, and at other brands; the names escape me 5 hours later - checked sizes and sort of checked styles.
For perhaps 10 minutes, I wandered about, clearly a lost soul, a threadbare man overcome by the richness of unworn garments around him.
I did not try on a single pair of pants. I gave up on shirts after after idly picking up no more than 2 or 3 of them. "Large?" I muttered bitterly, "What the hell does that mean? What's the fucking neck size! That would tell me something!"
And so at length, I found The Bay's egress. Sweaty and bitchy, I crossed Queen to await a crowded streetcar.
Naturally, as I waited, it began to rain.
Shopping, as is well-known, is the Art by which wealthy Westerners in the early 20th Century most oftem entertain themselves.
As Woman gains ascendancy in an age where Man's influence wanes - the Hunter, become anachronism; the Gatherer, become Queen - it behooved me to make another effort to "get with the times" (as might have been said by someone hip 20 or 30 years ago - leave it be).
More than one acquaintances has suggested Shopping as a means of both distracting myself from my new-found singledom and of providing myself a high that, for once, involves neither a still nor an underground greenhouse.
"Buy yourself some nice clothes!" rang the chorus and so it was, today - after many false starts - I found myself entring the remarkably unprepossing doors of historic The Hudson Bay store at the corner of streets Queen and Bay.
Immediately upon ascent of a short flight of stairs, I found myself made small amongst endless displays of a curious undergament known as "jockey shorts", or just "jockeys".
Jockeys seem a most peculiar undergarment, excessive. Not only do they clearly do the job (though I confess to wondering at its necessity, outside of a playing field), providing a snug pouch into which one's manhood may be comfortably cocooned, but they also fully cover not only the buttocks but also a goodly stretch of thigh in the bargain.
Having grown up swimming naked, even a pair of Speedos strikes me as too much coverage; and having gone bareback lo several decades now, I attempted to move swiftly past the briefs.
But I found myself distracted, indeed stopped, by rack upon wrack of bath-robes and pyjamas.
Now, it is true I no longer have a pair of pyjamas, but it is still summer and I do have a rather nice robe I call my own, since it is my own, a gift from my Sainted Mother.
With an effort of will, I pulled myself from the display of night-clothes and moved on, in pursuit of my intended prey. (And here perhaps, is where my failure began; for is not the true pleasure in Shopping to be found in the search, and not in the finding?
I did not search. I barely noticed the hoisery displayed between myself and the Men's Casual department. And there I found myself at sea.
Pants, pants, everywhere!
But nary a pair
To try on.
I was overwhelmed. I looked at Dockers (so many Dockers, so many kinds of them!), and - well, and at other brands; the names escape me 5 hours later - checked sizes and sort of checked styles.
For perhaps 10 minutes, I wandered about, clearly a lost soul, a threadbare man overcome by the richness of unworn garments around him.
I did not try on a single pair of pants. I gave up on shirts after after idly picking up no more than 2 or 3 of them. "Large?" I muttered bitterly, "What the hell does that mean? What's the fucking neck size! That would tell me something!"
And so at length, I found The Bay's egress. Sweaty and bitchy, I crossed Queen to await a crowded streetcar.
Naturally, as I waited, it began to rain.
no subject
youre right, shopping is the devil.
i've found i can not look at sizing anymore. its all differnt and with the popularity of child, prison, and illegal labour in the garment industry standards have plumeted. i have found that the worst was when the sadistic designers introduced low-rise pants, for one summer, i couldnt find any pants that had a high enough waist to cover my lower half. i understand fashion=sexy, but i am not a doll, i dont want to be excessorised, glamorized, stuffed into too tight clothing.
of course, this does little to deter people form adapting their own sense of style. in the past few months, ive seen too many women wearing all white, too tight clothing,their under-garments outlined for all to see. i used to avert my eyes, now i cringe, for many...many...reasons
no subject
It is rare that I see a woman who is dressed properly and attractively. I see those same things you see and just shake my head. Is it honestly attractive to be wearing low-rise jeans with a thong hanging out? And oh, it's for the boys, is it? Well what kind of boys do you think you will be attracting with that kind of poor fashion? Honestly. Women amaze me. They dress this way and then question the negative attention they get from men? They may not deserve it, no one does, but don't be so silly as to question it when you are dressing the way you do.
I suppose we will just have to continue averting our eyes? Heh. Especially in summer... I dread summer and being packed in this city with women wearing dental floss.
no subject
i dread forty years from now, because we'll be subjected to at least a handful of people who are senior citizens reliving their youth by ...dammit, i cant even say it...lets hope their children burn their clothing