Clothes
Finding that in spite of all my careful
calculations, the cheque book still manages to sink into overdraft while I'm
not looking. Wondering whether the cat will make it outside before it chokes on
a furball, and trying to hasten its fat departure through the narrow cat door.
Discovering that the first page of my article is printing on the last piece of
paper in the box, that it's Sunday, and the deadline is 9am Monday.
These small inconveniences of life
apart, one other matter I have to face every so often is more stressful than
them all. Which is why I put off doing anything about it for as long as
possible.
No, it isn't a visit to the dentist.
I've only been fazed by a visit to the dentist twice in the last 18 years.
On one occasion the dentist plugged up
a hole after draining it. By the time I'd walked from Frederick St to the Octagon,
however, the fact that someone appeared to be driving a nail up through the
roof of my mouth towards my sinus proved there was still plenty of gunk in it.
On the other occasion, a tooth had to
go. What was left was barely visible below the gum. Somehow the dentist pried
it loose, but I came home wondering if it was my tooth or my head he'd been
trying to remove.
No, more stressful than any of these is
shopping for clothes. When I was a youth, with money to spend, and no one to
please but myself, purchasing clothes was a breeze. But nowadays another person has to have a
say in the choice of clothes - apart from the Bank Manager. (Of course I also
have to fend off the suggestions of my children, who, until they see what
you've bought think that the only clothes I should wear are jeans, jeans and
jeans - and the baggier the better.)
I girded up my loins recently and,
along with the person mentioned above, sallied forth to deal with racks of
clothes, all of which look to me to be quite unsuited to my flamboyant
personality.
Why do men's trousers only come in
three shades of black, and two shades of grey? (The other possibility is
khaki.) And why do so many puff out in such a way as to look as though you're
carrying six dirty handkerchieves and a pair of rolled-up socks in each pocket?*
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| Courtesy of Newtown Grafitti |
to lose a couple of stone. Those that fit my waist slop round my feet like Peter Pan's shadow.
To please the person accompanying me,
(who wishes not to be named), I did try on a pair of jeans. I'm sure I heard
one of the mirrors in the fitting room snigger, and that was before it thumped
the back of my head while I was trying to remove a shirt two sizes too small
for me.
Talking of the shirts: by the time I'd
tried on half a dozen colours and designs, I was sweating to such a degree that
if the shop assistant had noticed, I would have been forced to purchase them
all.
Buying clothes invariably makes me come
over all sweaty and foot-smelly. No wonder shop assistants keep their distance.
(As did my accompanying person, who wafted off looking at other garments as
soon as I got something on, and had to be hissed back to her place of
inspection.)
And further stress is caused by never
knowing who'll suddenly tear open the fitting room curtains and reveal me half
in and out of some item of clothing, or struggling to hang a garment back on
its coathanger the perfect way it was, or maybe even telling myself how good I
look in something everyone else says is ghastly.
Do you see why I'd sooner go to the
dentist?
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*I used to have a fairly regular customer in my bookshop who appeared to carry several half-used toilet rolls in his pockets.
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