I am a fat guy and for me, normally shopping is an exercise in futility. After all, what is the point of going to ten shops only to have clerks measure my stomach and then make a half-assed attempt to pretend like their store has the size before mumbling “sorry nothing here”.
And they measure it in every store, like they cant believe anyone would possibly wear 44 inch waist sized pants. They cant take my word for it of course. They have to grope around me to ensure that their tapes give them the most accurate reading. What do they really expect? the magical number of 34 will arise if they measure it?
And even if they do have the size, the choices are generally ridiculous. In India the consensus seems to be fat men will only wear single-colour full-sleeve shirts and dull coloured pants. Anything else is beyond their imagination.
Indeed why should a fat man even dare to think he can wear something nice. Tell the bastard to lose some weight first and then bother to ask for “choice”, the lard ass.
Of course none of this has left me bitter in any way. No sir. But I do harbour a deep seated and uncontrollable jealous and envious rage at the thin ones who can literally breeze into any store and pull on the first pair of pants they find and walk out looking like James Bond.
Ironically then this happy delusion of mine was mildly miffed when i went shopping with my brother – in – law yesterday. Aside from the new knowledge that my sister’s husband is a nit-picking teenage girl when it comes to shopping, I discovered a new angle. Thin people DO have difficulty finding clothes.
The jeans were faded or criss crossed with designs – a definite no-can-do since he needed to wear it to work. The cotton pants he selected were too loose and the next size too tight. The corduroys were too atrocious to even speak off. Then, after loafing around the jeans section for nearly an hour, we finally drifted over to the formal pants sections.
He had too many brown pants and would definitely not go a blue pant. Black was the way to go. He had too many pin-striped ones and he didn’t like the slightly ribbed one. We eventually found a pitch black one, but the shade was slightly off. Luckily he decided to give up and just bought the pants. Heck by then I had also picked up two shirts for myself. They were nice.
As we stood in the never ending check out queue I realised that we had spent some two hours in this massive store for thin people ( not a single pant in my size) and not found anything. The awful truth was that since I was fat, I went to a store that I knew had my size and the choice was limited so it was usually a ten minute affair. Fed on a glut of choices and having to never face the situation of no size, thin people suffer from the disease of excess. The shade, the look, the feel, the material and even the stitching of their clothes had to be absolutely perfect. Being a fat man, I have never, EVER left a store TWO hours later – empty handed.
The slightest and smallest feeling of empathy crept into my hardened soul on the drive back home. Poor thin guys, unable to ever satisfy their nit-picking demands, doomed to bad clothing I suppose. Tragic, indeed.
No worries however, the world was put back into focus a short half–an–hour later. His clothes, however painfully obtained, fit him. The two shirts I bought – no such luck.