It's official. I really hate shopping. I feel like I'm being tortured as Isabelle drags me from store to store to look at and try on clothes that make me feel like I'm turning into someone else. I know that sounds dramatic but that's what keeps running through my head, that I'm actually becoming someone else. I usually wear lots of black with some retro t-shirts or sweatshirts and my beloved Converse. Dresses, especially the fancy ones Isabelle keeps tossing over the dressing room door, are just not me. I look down at the latest frilly piece of fluff that landed at my feet and lightly kick it to the side. I chose my jade green Converse for today's shopping trip, black jeans, and a worn Ramones t-shirt. I have over 50 pairs the classic Chuck Taylors and love every single one. From the pair I have on now to the glittery silver ones I got at the outlet mall to my classic black, I would have a very hard time choosing a favorite.
Up until now, I think my shoes might have been the most interesting thing about me. I'm always on the lookout for deals because my parents buy me a pair for every birthday and holiday and I want to save them money. I have a weird relationship with money. I worry about it nearly all the time but really never have any because I don't work. My parents do give me an allowance and I tend to horde the money because, up until now, I never had a social life and give me an allowance to buy.
Yes, I still get an allowance even though I'm a senior in high school. I tried to have a job once. It lasted for about three and a half months. I worked as a hostess in a restaurant. This meant I had to be on my feet a lot, move around quite a bit, and also deal with my co-workers and the general public all the time. This was problematic for several reasons.
First, my ridiculous back issues cause me pain when I'm doing nothing while all snug in my bed so both standing upright and walking around causes major problems. I was in real trouble if I had to work two or more days in a row. I'd then have to lie in bed for two more days and then before I knew it, I'd be back on the schedule and the whole painful process would start all over again.
Second, I truly dislike most people. I find most of them boring and kind of stupid so I avoid them as much as possible. Dealing with angry families who walk in a restaurant without a reservation at the busiest time of the night and expect to be seated immediately at a great table, crying babies with parents who are either frustrated by them or completely ignore their scream, and drunk customers was not my idea of a good time.
I would have stuck it out if the waitresses and owner had been nice to me, but they weren't. The owner in particular was a huge bitch. My mom said she had to be tough to run a business, three restaurants, actually, and that I shouldn't look at her like she was being a bitch to me but that she was just doing what she had to do to keep her employees in line and her restaurant running.
I don't care. She was awful and could have been nicer to everyone in the restaurant. So I quit and my back thanked me once I wasn't on my feet for hours at a time and at least three days in a row every week.
And, if I'm going to be honest, there is a third factor going on here. I'll never say this out loud to anyone, but I have developed an amazing resting bitch face to keep people away from me. I never think anyone will like me and if I manage not to like them first, then my feelings won't be hurt. Not as much, anyways.
This is one of the many reasons I was so surprised when Isabelle came to me on her own and didn't seem at all bothered by my half crabby, half extremely shy attitude.
But here I am. At a mall, surrounded by frilly dresses, none of which I like. None of which even look remotely like me. I know what Isabelle is trying to do. She's really trying to help me turn into a girl that Thomas might like.
As another dress flies over the dressing room door, I step out and hold up my hand. "Enough."
Isabelle's mile starts to fade. "What?"
"These aren't me. I want to look nice, but I have to be comfortable or this whole night is going to be miserable for me, and for Thomas, too."
She looks down at the ground and I start to panic and wonder if she's going to abandon me here. I'll have to call one of my parents to pick me up and they'll have tons of questions regarding the situation and I'll have to explain myself. I really hate explaining myself, just like I hate telling people about my illnesses. I'd rather leave things unsaid than have to put my thoughts, or my pain, into words, but that does not seem good enough for most people, especially my parents. I get that they're concerned for me but all that talking and all the thinking that goes along with it just tires me out, mentally, emotionally, and physically. So, I shut up and piss people off because they think I'm being a jerk or that I'm just blowing them off. I'm not, of course, but I can see how they'd feel that way.
Isabelle is still staring at me, her eyes are all squinty and her lips are set in a tiny little line. I have a sudden vision of her sucking in those lips so tight that they just vanish into her mouth. It's an oddly funny image but laughing right now it probably not the best idea.
"OK" she says slowly. "What do you want to wear? I mean, if you don't like anything I've picked out." She sounds hurt and I feel like an asshole. She's just trying to help me but if I spend the whole night adjusting my straps or pulling up my dress I'll be super uncomfortable and anxious.
Another thought flashes through my brain. Worst case scenario time, what if my dress falls down? I really don't have much to brag about in the boob department. What if, and I know this is a big if but hear me out, the straps on the dress like the ones Isabelle seems to want me to wear break and I flash Thomas with my less than sexy bra? Wait-do I need to wear a sexy bra, too? This is all to freaking much.
As my thoughts continue to run wild and dream up ridiculous potential scenarios, I realize that I've left Isabelle hanging and haven't answered her question.
"I'm sorry but I think that I need to wear jeans and a shirt or something."
She looks really disappointed. "Really? One a first date?"
I look down at my feet and feel my face flush. "Yeah. I mean, you can help me pick out the shirt. It can be fancy. I guess. Fancy-ish, anyway."
She shrugs and says, "OK". I'll take it. At least she didn't leave me drowning in a pile of dresses.
We walk in silence to the other end of the mall until we arrive at Macy's. I'm a little surprised we ended up here because the last time I set foot in this store I was with my mom looking for a dress for the 8th grade dance. I wouldn't pick anything and we both left in tears. We eventually found something but only after I tried on like 30 dresses. I went to the dance with this guy I used to be sort of friends with. I still insist that our mothers got together to set us up because neither of us seemed very happy to be there. He ditched me after one awkward dance and I found him making out with some other girl in the corner. I know we were just friends but he was still my date. It wasn't exactly a magical night. He ended up going to a different high school and I never saw him again, which was OK with me. Who wants to be friends with someone who gropes another girl in a smelly gym disguised for the night by cheap streamers and deflating balloons?
Isabelle has been uncharacteristically quiet during our walk and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. I know I hurt her feelings when I said I didn't like any of the dresses she picked out. She usually just brushes off my negative and slightly paranoid attitude but I suppose even someone as positive and perky as she is can get irritated when she is around someone like me.
After we step into the store she takes a quick left and walks quickly to the juniors section. I hurry to keep up with her and in just a minute we're standing in front of a jumbled mess of clothes on a sea of racks. From flannels to sequins to everything in between, you name it, the juniors section of Macy's has it all.
Isabelle seems to have recovered from our earlier shopping disaster and spreads her arms wide open like everything in front of her is all hers. She turns to me and smiles.
"They have everything here! If you can't find something at the Macy's juniors section you're hopeless."
Hopeless. It feels like she slapped me across the face. If I had to choose the top five words that describe me that would definitely be on the list.
My eyes fill with tears and I quickly blink to hold them back. I turn my head so Isabelle doesn't see that I'm upset but she must sense it or something and puts her hand on my arm.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean that you're hopeless. I sometimes say stuff I don't mean."
I smile at her. "It's OK. I'm sorry I didn't like any of the dresses you picked out at the other store. I know you're just trying to help."
"I was pissed at first but I get it. I wouldn't want anyone to make me look or dress like something I'm not."
I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest and I can breathe again. I'm a little disappointed in myself, too. Isabelle's feelings mean so much to me even though we haven't known each other very long. I feel a little desperate.
The silence between us is awkward so I grab the first pair of jeans I see from the table to my left. "I'll try these."
Isabelle takes them from me, unfolds them, and closely inspects them. "These are too big for you but I like them. Skinny, black, kind of dressy, I guess. What size are you? A six?"
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"I just have an eye for these things." She starts going through the pile, flinging jeans left and right until she finds my size. "Perfect! You go try these on and I'll find some tops for you to try with them and then we can finally get out of here."
She sprints off and I slowly make my way to the dressing room. I feel like I have PTSD from the first part of our shopping trip and am really dreading locking myself into another small room with harsh lighting and what has to be a fun house mirror. That's the only explanation I have for it because I look way better in the mirrors at home than I do in these.
I try the jeans on, avoiding as much eye contact with the mirror on the wall as possible. I close my eyes, slowly turn around, and peek at my image. Huh, I think. The jeans look good. I don't quite believe it, but they make my ass look good, too. Not too flat, not too big. No gap at the waist and my legs aren't half bad in them either.
Hangers clang as Isabelle flings a bunch of tops over the door. "Here you go! How are the jeans? Please tell me you actually like them."
I poke my head out to see Isabelle standing there with her hands clasped, almost as though she's praying for a positive verdict on the jeans. I smile at her.
"I like them! Look!"
"Holy shit-you look great! Look at your ass!"
I twirl around. "I know! It's amazing!"
Isabelle laughs. "Thomas is going to love it!"
I immediately blush. "Stop it! I'm sure he won't even look at it."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, OK. Sure he won't. Now try on the tops while I go look for some jewelry."
It's my turn to roll my eyes. "Jewelry? Can't we just stop with the new clothes?"
"Nope!" And with that she's gone, off to search for some obnoxiously big earrings or something like that.
I try on all five tops and find one I actually like. It's black, which is perfect for me, but it is sparkly, sleeveless, and kind of strappy in the back. It looks perfect with the jeans and I can wear my black leather jacket with it.
When Isabelle comes back to the dressing room holding long silver earrings, I immediately take them from her and hold them up to my ear. "What do you think? Do they look OK with this?"
Her eyes light up. "You mean you like this one? Are we actually going to be able to go home soon?"
I laugh at her hopeful expression. "I thought you loved to shop!"
"I do! You've just been...challenging!"
That makes me laugh even harder. That's me, a challenge. "You're right. Thanks for putting up with me."
She shrugs. "What are friends for? The earrings are perfect, by the way."
Her question makes my heart feels impossibly light. As we pay for my hard fought purchases, Isabelle turns to me.
"Hey-can you run my new band name by Thomas tonight to see what he thinks? Maybe he'll be so distracted by your ass that you can slip this one by him. They guys never like my suggestions!" She scrunches up her face. "Come to think of it, neither do you."
We walk out of the mall into the late day sunlight. "I'll try to bring it up, sure. What is it?"
"Casual Stabbing. I think it has potential. It's edgy!"
"Edgy? Sure. I'll make sure to distract him with my ass so he doesn't realize how weird that sounds."
"You're a good friend."