the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

I hate it under normal circumstances, where "normal" is defined as "safely within the bounds of the American culture." Here, I hate it even more passionately. I've probably been building up to this all my life.

I think you have to be conditioned to enjoy shopping, because I never was. Mother made my clothes most of the time, and I inherited hand-me-downs. When she could, she would order stuff we needed from Sears. We generally didn't have any extra money to go shopping with, anyway. The only time I remember shopping for clothing when I was growing up was during the summer sidewalk sale all over town, which fell sometime in July, I think. This was something I looked forward to--clothes shopping was an occasion!--and it invariably turned out to be an ordeal.

This wasn't Mother's fault. It was in East Texas, which boasts a semi-tropical climate. Imagine spending your entire day standing on sidewalks in a climate where people are beginning to evolve gills just from breathing the air and it's 110F in the shade. Now add in the fact that each selected item was inspected for quality and decency and price, and not purchased if it failed to meet any of the above qualifications. And you don't know how to shop. It's a skill. Shoppers know what size they are in various areas of their bodies. They understand changing room protocol. And they have probably developed stamina for the sport.

Halfway through the day, we'd be exhausted and footsore and hot and cranky. Mother would treat us to Baskin Robbins ice cream--another rarity--to improve our moods so we could hit a few more sales before the end of the day. The ice cream was nice, but like any other drug, it only masked the misery until the effects wore off, which was when the last of the cone was consumed. And now we were exhausted, footsore, hot, cranky, and thirsty.

We never seemed to come home with much to show for the effort, either. I felt like the massive amount of effort should have netted massive gains--or at least modest ones. I mean, when I went out to pick peas (same time of year, with remarkably similar working conditions, minus the Baskin Robbins), I at least came back to the house with a bushel or so to show for my sweat.

You get the picture, I hope. I grew up with poor shopping experiences, when I had them at all. By adulthood, I was more or less convinced that shopping was one of those chores that must occasionally be done, like scrubbing the soap scum out of the shower.*

* Something I traditionally only do just before I move.

Oh...one more thing. We were poor. My parents did what was necessary to pay the bills and avoid debt and keep us sheltered and fed etc, but we didn't have any extra. We got no allowances. Money in our hands was very rare, and when we had it, it was to be spent wisely. So there you go: I don't like spending money, either.

Needless to say, Mich has had a wicked time of it getting me into clothing that she was willing to be seen in public with. Most of what I had when we met was left-over comfy stuff from the 80s and early 90s. I know...I know. It's appalling. But I had all these perfectly good clothes and I had no notion of fashion (and being in the military hasn't improved it). Most people hop off the fashion train at some point in their 30s; I never made it to the station to begin with.

Mich took to buying things for me since it was far easier than dragging me somewhere to try things on. What I mean is this: she'd guess at my size, buy something, bring it home, have me try it on, and if it didn't fit she'd take it back and get the next size, and this was easier than taking me shopping. Thus, my attire has slowly been evolving into something I hope is at least marginally acceptable. (At one point, she even made a deal with me: "If I buy you some nice shirts [she knows better than to offer me "blouses"], will you get rid of the raggedy shirts you have?" I said I promised to not wear them in public if she did, but the shirts had to be something I was willing to wear. She said, "No problem. Strong material, oversized, shapeless, subdued colors." She knows me well. She made good on her end of the deal, and I made good on mine.)

You may be asking why I dress like that. Why don't I dress more like a girl? My own grandmother--who I love dearly--accused me trying to dress like a man. After that, pretty much anyone can say whatever they like about how I dress and it doesn't faze me. I dress the way I do because it's the only way I'm comfortable. I want clothing that is functional. It should be durable, decent, and it must be something I can move in. I am athletic and a martial artist. I won't bother with clothing that I cannot defend myself wearing. (Laugh if you wish. I've been mocked for this before.)

Further, I generally avoid clothing that hugs me. I'll wear "tight" jeans occasionally (which in the modern view, are merely "jeans that fit"), but that's about it. I'm not interested in emphasizing my body and further sexualizing myself. I get more than enough attention--most of it unwanted--as it is.

So...yeah. Why do you dress the way you do?

Back to shopping.... I often end up shopping in the men's section because my clothing interests reject overt, tight, attention-getting, frilly, and flimsy.* It's a fact of life: men's clothing tends to be designed to withstand normal wear and tear. Men don't generally have to worry if their parts are hanging out when they bend over. If a man is attacked, his ability to defend himself is not limited by high heels and tight skirt.**

* And incredibly expensive. Men's clothing is cheaper, girls.

** Most human cultures tend to be opposite those of birds in this sense: the female bird is almost alwayts the one with the subdued plumage, while the male is bright and flashy. Why do we do it backwards?

Shopping. Right.

In America, I shop thusly: I have a need, so I go to the one store most likely to meet that need in a price range I find agreeable. I go directly to the item I am looking for. I select the size I expect will fit. I try things on until I'm happy. I buy three of them and leave.

It's a different game here, though. Even when I shop in the YKM, which is a nice department store near my home, the experience is unlike anything American. First, you have a salesman following you around; he is there to help, but it can be a bit unnerving. You know how you'll try something on and it fits and you want to think about it before you buy it? Here, the salesman sees you come out of the changing room and asks if you want the clothes. If you say yes, he takes them from you immediately, puts his tag on them, and carries them to the register for you. He'll collect your pile as long as you shop there. It's convenient because you don't have to carry things around, but it also feels a bit like you're locked into your choices. You aren't...but the feeling is there.

I'm used to this now.

The next problem--and it's a huge one--is that Turkish female styles are shockingly revealing.* And they don't fit me. Let's start with the pants: they are what is known in American parlance as "short-waisted." In this case, that's an overstatement. The pants here barely cover your pubes. (I know that's crass, but I'm not kidding.) The next problem is that they will fit in the butt and the thighs, but the waist will be several inches too large. Several inches. So now you have pants that go half-way to your belly button and stop, hug your crotch and ass like there's no tomorrow, and apparently expect your hips to have the same measurement as your ass.

* Or overwhelmingly hot and oppressive. Long, heavy, shapeless robes that are generally worn in layers, along with the obligatory head scarf. Gotta hide that evil hair, you know.

I tried on a few of these today. After the fifth one or so, I began to observe the women around me. These pants apparently fit most Turkish women without need for alteration. Must be that awesome Turkish cuisine.

Then we move to the blouses. I have a quasi requirement here to purchase and wear "business casual" clothing to and from work, which means teeshirts are unacceptable (except when nothing else is clean). Thus, I need something that looks presentable and is, above all, cool.* This moves me into blouse territory.

* It gets warm here.

Most blouses have huge necks. They are designed to be revealing. They require bras that ride just on the edge of your shoulder so your strap isn't showing all the time, which means you're constantly pulling the strap back onto your shoulder. And don't even get me started about the scooped necks that provide a view clear to Paris when you have to bend over.*

* And I ain't even got anything to show. If I'm going to wear something like that, why don't I just walk around in my bra and be done with it?

The sleeves are often tiny, too. Women should have slender limbs, I suppose.* I do not. One of the blouses I bought today will only fit if I unbutton the sleeves at the biceps. The rest fits fine, so it'll do.

* From a lifetime of physical work and athleticism combined with simple genetics, I have well-developed shoulders and arms. The men here routinely ask me if I'm "sportif." They dig the muscle. Maybe they should mention this to their women.

Who designs this crap? I want to say it's just a bunch of sexist men, but that isn't so. Women not only design this shit, but they purchase and wear it, too. The market has a way of determining what is produced and how much of it. What do other women want from their clothes? Do they want to feel sexy or something? (Honestly, I don't get this. If I may be blunt--and I may, since this is my blog--I'm just sexy,* and what I wear has nothing to do with it.) Are these women insecure about what they have to offer men, and so they choose to dangle the physical carrot in lieu of depth and quality? Do they want to wear things that make them feel like they're walking around in public naked? What?

* I have no idea why, but I've come to accept it as a fact of life.

Anyways. I purchased two blouses that seemed less compromising than all the rest, as well as a few teeshirts that have buttons on the front and thus will pass for blouses, as well was something that's not unlike a dress.

Besides my need for functionality, which most dresses don't meet, I was obliged to wear dresses constantly until I was old enough to argue my way out of them.* I never liked them, but they were the cost of admission in our house (my brothers looked kinda cute in their kilts...), so I did it. When I left home, I got rid of all my dresses and replaced them with pants. I've probably put on a dress, including my mess dress, less than five times since then.

* I was 17. I'd bought my first vehicle and had a job which I went to directly from school. Mother had told me that I wore dresses because girls shouldn't be doing anything that required them to wear pants...until she got a job that required her to wear pants, at which point the rule was amended. I used this amended rule to justify pants.

But I'm running out of options here. I need stuff that fits, doesn't reveal everything the good Lord* gave me, looks reasonably presentable to The Powers That Be, and is cool.

* Or maybe the bad Lord. I get them confused.

So I picked up something that was dress-like. It has light material, but isn't clingy light. It breathes. It isn't form-fitting. It covers enough of my legs that I won't concern myself with flashing people if I have to stoop to pick up my sunglasses, and it buttons down the front. It's actually cute. (I feel strange just using that word, but there you go.)

After this, I wandered into a few other shops, but was reminded why I simply don't do that. At least the sales clerks respect your space in the YKM. In the lesser shops, they will stand right next to you and wait for you to select something. Pickpockets don't require this level of proximity. Besides...my ankle was killing me, so I came home.

I still need decent slacks, but in two days, I will be in Italy. I hear they have clothing there.

d