The CIA is ruining the economy

For the first time in many months, I actually went to a store to go clothes shopping. In my recluse-aspirationally quest to avoid human contact, I’d been online shopping for the last year. Today I had no choice, as I needed to find something for two days from now, and there was no time to wait for the post office to fuck that up.

I was instantly reminded why I don’t physically go to clothes stores or try things on. I don’t know what kind of lighting they use in fitting rooms, but it is somewhere between a McDonalds food heat lamp and what the CIA uses in secret detention centers to interrogate suspected terrorists. I left feeling hopelessly dejected, until I discovered a liquor superstore opened down the street from the mall. Wine heals everything.

Just this week I was contemplating throwing myself back into the dating scene. I wasn’t terribly serious about it. Not enough to spend money on, but enough to test the waters on the free hookup websites, but so far only had been contacted by trolls and old creepy men. In recent weeks, I’ve had a few old crushes/sex buddies reappear in my life and I thought I’d at least be safe with them. I know what I’m getting, and they aren’t felons or potential serial killers/Jared from Subway. Yesterday even I was thinking about reconnecting with the old “fun” me that had no problem sexting with younger men. Because dammit, I was sexy a few years ago. I don’t weigh much different than I did then (well there was more wine weight but I lost that.) I’m back doing pilates. A few weeks of that and I’d be back to where I was 3 years ago. I’m not as confident, but I don’t know why, because I really don’t look different. I’m pondering whether I need Xanax. But for a moment I thought my hojo was back.

Yeah. Until today. Until two different store fitting rooms. I felt good this morning. Down a pound on the scale. All was good. Then I went out and tried on workout clothes in anticipation of 100 degree heat at the US Open on Monday. Clothes made for 20 year old stick figures.

Suddenly it was like, “Where did this muffin top come from? I’ve eaten crackers today. And I know I didn’t wake up with this. I’m down a pound. What the hell?”

And then it became, “When did my skin break out like this? I didn’t see this at home!”

“My tattoos are all faded! I need to retouch them. They look terrible. I need another one. But dammit, I’m so fat now, where would I put it?”

“My boobs are starting to sag. Can’t they make a sports bra for people my size? Maybe I need to start sleeping in a bra. Damn. Why can’t I be a man?”

“No one is ever having sex with me again. I’m old and fat. And apparently have adult acne.”

I don’t understand this. My informal Facebook survey has revealed that many women experience the same feelings in store fitting rooms. This is counterintuitive to me. Stores would sell so much more if they had soft mood lighting and served wine in fitting rooms. Why isn’t this a thing? I am going to email this to Joe Biden right now, because if he ran for President on a campaign of soft mood lighting in fitting rooms, not only would unemployment disappear and the economy grow, but my grandpa crush Ol’ Handsome Joe would go down in history as the greatest president of all time.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I just found the answer to world peace. I’m waiting for your call Nobel committee. You’re in Sweden anyway. I’m like your American tourist board anyway.

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