Mystery: The Art of Shopping
Aug. 23rd, 2006 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ed_rexby 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.
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Well, Ma'am ...
Date: 2006-08-25 03:33 am (UTC)For what it's worth, I am a short and less than slender man. Finding a pair of pants that fits my waist but doesn't leave my cuffs tripping up my feet isn't easy (though it can be done).
My point though, was that I just really hate the whole environment. My I should start shopping online. It's the process of shopping I dislike so much.
Re: Well, Ma'am ...
Date: 2006-08-26 12:03 am (UTC)I am extremely short, on top of being full-figured (yay for me), and I have never, ever purchased a pair of pants that my grandma has not had to hem for me. She has honestly been hemming my pants for twenty-two years. Poor thing. I have no idea why there is no such thing as someone short and not thin, or someone tall and not thin, or someone short and thin. There is just tall and thin in the fashion/clothing industry. Am I the only one who finds this obscenely inconsiderate and disturbing? And this goes for both genders, not just females. I know males also have their fair share of clothing woes.
I agree about the process. I hate it. I hated shopping even as a teenage girl, and I hate it even more now. I swear by online shopping these days. I do leave the house, of course, but I just never go to malls. Keeps the blood pressure down!