I can see why men can hate clothes shopping. It’s not just the waiting; it’s the people.
Trying to walk down Oxford Street in London is bad enough, but trying to move from rack to rack in Primark is beyond a joke.
First, there is the not-so-subconscious competition between women trying to imitate the £10,000 look of the currently in-vogue celeb.
Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but when it comes to clothes shopping I prefer my comfy clothes rather than my butt-wedged skinny jeans and monstrous heels – it’s about practicality. But it does mean I’m not on the fashion radar. While this is clearly an advantage for my fellow competitors – because, as they see it, they have right of way – it, however, does little for fighting my corner.
Next, there is actually getting to the clothes.
With several hundred beautified women all swarming around the racks there really isn’t such a word as browsing when it comes to clothes shopping. It’s more swoop and grab; like some sort of evolutionary survival behaviour.
But it also comes down to luck – once having elbowed your way to the rack, finding your size is at times almost impossible. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if there is a vendetta against women who are below the “average size” – no size 10; ha-ha try again. I have been trumped more than once.
Yet, against the survival odds you come out with a pile of clothes to try on only to find a line, worthy of queues for Madonna tickets, snaking its way around the store. Do you give up? Bugger that – not after the torment of hunting.
Now, if you’re shopping savvy you do what every other shopper does – bypass the changing rooms and try the clothes on right there on the shop floor. Sure a coat or jacket; but seriously a pair of trousers?!
Ok so you’re my way inclined and prefer not to bare all to your competitors on the shop floor, so it’s a matter of patience and then finally, halleluiah, you get to the front of the queue only to be told it’s a maximum of six items for each changing room.
Now you have to shuttle back and forth from the changing cubicle replenishing your stock of clothes to try on and all the while envying those girls who were brave enough to drop their drawers out in public, who are probably right now enjoying a fat-free muffin and soy-latte.
The funny thing is, you go through all this for what? No one actually cares what you wear in London. You could probably get away with wearing a garbage bag and not be looked at twice. The truth is, everyone is just too worried about what they look like themselves to worry about the looks of anyone else. Now, where are my stirrup trousers?