Sunday, 22 July 2012

Y Da Effort?

As mentioned in my previous post, I need to buy a dress for my cousin’s wedding in September.   Yes, I know that I still have nearly two months to find said dress, but outfits such as these require careful planning and foresight.   So yesterday, when I heard that YDE was having its winter sale, I decided to brave the cold and see whether I could find something amazing for half the price.   Little did I know that I should have stayed in my nice warm bed and saved myself the hassle.

When I walked into the YDE at Cavendish shopping centre, I was greeted by a burly-looking security guard who eyed me up and down as if trying to decide whether I was concealing a weapon in my not-so-large handbag.   He did not warm up to me even after I flashed him my best grin, and so I quickly decided to give up on being nice and get down to business.   For those of you who are not au fait with YDE etiquette, shoppers are limited to trying on a meagre four items of clothing at a time.   For some this is a completely reasonable number, but for a hard-core shopper like myself (who likes to give everything a try), I knew that it was going to be a long day.

As I began my search for the sublime, I was quickly distracted by the large number of little people in the shop.   They were hard to ignore as they ran up and down the aisles, stopping every now and then to pull a highly inappropriate dress from the rack and gasp phrases such as “Oh my gosh, this is SO di-vine!”   Not to so sound like a grumpy granny or anything, but these kids couldn’t have been more than ten and were definitely not in possession of the necessary assets to fill such garments.   “Since when do ten year olds shop at YDE?”, I thought to myself as I quickly picked up four items and headed for the changing room.   “I can barely afford to shop here and I’m 23!”

When I reached the waiting room, I came face-to-face with a glamazon who would look ten times prettier if she actually smiled once in a while.   I handed over my garments and pleasantly greeted her, to which she responded with a suspicious look as if she thought that I was trying to trick her in some way.   A rightful concern of course – how many times have you heard of people fooling innocent shop assistants by being nice to them?   When I finally entered the terribly-lit fat-enhancing changing room, I soon discovered why the shop was swarming with ten year olds: clearly they were the only people who could actually fit into the clothes on offer.   As I squirmed my way out of the second dress that I had tried on, I quickly came to the conclusion that according to YDE standards I was definitely not a “small”, and even “medium” was pushing it a bit.   Just the thing to get the old self-esteem going on a Saturday morning!

Needless to say, none of my four items fitted and I took a deep breath and decided to try again (me being the devoted shopper that I am couldn’t give up on the first attempt!).   As I raked the next rack of clothes, I started to notice that the vast majority of dresses and skirts that I came across were sporting a definite hooker vibe – a ten-year old hooker of course, because real hookers wouldn’t be able to fit into them.   Most consisted of very little fabric and were crafted out of a stretchy material that looked very similar to that of sausage casing.   I, being the prude that I am, decided that this was not appropriate wedding attire and went in search of something a bit less...risqué.

By the time I had found four dresses that actually covered my rear-end (most of them were ‘large”) there was a queue waiting for the dressing room.   The glamazon had been replaced by a man whose lifelong desire was clearly to be a cattle-herder, and I felt my temper rise as I was forcibly pushed backwards to a “safe distance” from the changing room.   As if this wasn’t enough, “Babe” then proceeded to order us from left to right, all the while checking that we weren’t trying to smuggle in an illegal extra item of clothing.   When I finally reached the front of the queue and walked into the changing room, this brute of a man yelled after me as if I was about to detonate a bomb, just so that he could check (for the millionth time) that I only had four (yes FOUR) garments. 

After an hour of determined shopping, I had found absolutely nothing and was left with only one more dress to try on.   Surprisingly, this one actually fitted, and as I examined myself in the mirror I saw a ray of hope after a very long and frustrating shopping session – was I actually going to buy something?!   Things were looking up until I looked at the tag to see how much the dress was.   It wasn’t the price that deterred me, but more the fact that my potential purchase belonged in the tween section and was an age 13-14.   As I pulled the dress off, I could do nothing but laugh at the irony that I could fit into an age 13-14 dress but not a “small”, and decided that it was time to call it a day.   I walked out of the dressing room past the unsmiling glamazon, past “Babe” the cattle-herder, past the shrieking ten year olds, and past the grouchy security guard, and thought to myself,
Y Da Effort?”                                

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