Fact. Store mannequins are large inanimate objects that are often missing facial features and sometimes even missing the entire head.
Fact. Store Mannequins look far more attractive in the clothes they display than I ever will.
Possible Fact. Mannequins are probably more attractive than me when out of clothes as well but I’d rather not lead into a conversation about my genetils.
I often get told that my grip on reality isn’t too tight and that my self esteem is lower than hell’s basement but I generally just dismiss these comments with a random self deprecating joke and then proceed with my day. However even I can recognise that I’ve got problems when I get mannequin envy to the point where I’m evoking violent fantasies similar to those I experience when I meet evangelical Christians.
Out in the city on my last shopping trip I was engaging in some casual banter with a sales assistant about an ill fitting pair of jeans. It went something like this.
SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.
ME: I’m not entirely convinced about the cut.
SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.
ME: What are your thoughts on renewable energy sources as a means of reducing greenhouse gas emissions?
SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally...
At this point I was distracted from our riveting conversation by a mannequin that I spotted out the corner of my eye. The mannequin was faceless; its skin colour could best be described as asylum wall grey; it only managed to stand upright with the assistance of a metal pole crudely bolted to its lower back, and most notably, it was wearing the same jeans as me- and it looked hot.
So what’s the real problem with this situation? No, I don’t have sexual fantasies about mannequins, although I did have a strange obsession with that movie ‘A Mom For Christmas.’ The real problem is that I bought the overpriced jeans despite feeling completely inadequate compared to the mannequin. I bought them in what can only be described as a reactionary and spiteful gesture towards the mannequin, the shop assistant, the shop assistants sniggering friend who was not previously mentioned in this story, and anyone who happened to make eye contact with me that day.
This is just one of the many convoluted reasons I use to justify my spending. At the moment I’m basically living on credit. I don’t actually have any of that stuff you use to buy things, you know what I mean, um, you give it to the person in the shop and they give you goods and or services, oh what’s it called, money? Yeah that’s it, money! So here are some of the completely logical reasons I’ve used to justify swiping the plastic and giving my autograph to retailers all over town.
You can never have too much black in your wardrobe.
You really need some colour in your wardrobe.
That fits perfectly.
That doesn’t really fit well but it’s cool.
That does not fit you at all but it’s a good price.
That t-shirt is a piece of art don’t deny your creative side the freedom of expression.
That sales assistant has been really helpful and nice, you should buy something.
That sales assistant is a fucking bitch, you should definitely buy something.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
And so on and so forth.
As I cleaned out my wardrobe recently I made a startling discovery. A large black bag, filled to the brim with bags of every shape, colour and size. I steadily filled the bag over the last year, depositing bags one by one after each stupid purchase. Standing alone in my bedroom face to face with the bag full of bags I was completely overwhelmed. The bag was a horrific reminder of my mounting credit card debt, and it also prompted a horrible realisation that I was far shallower than I’d ever care to admit, this really upset me.
I had to get it out of my house. Like a man possessed I swept up the bag, ran outside to the bin, threw it inside and before the lid had even slammed shut I was on the phone with a friend provoking an intellectual conversation to reassure myself that I was more than a retail whore.
The next morning as I attempted to finish cleaning out my wardrobe I stumbled made another shocking discovery; I found something so horrific that I can’t even write a lame joke about it in an attempt to soften my shame.
I found ANOTHER bag full of bags.
Fact. Store Mannequins look far more attractive in the clothes they display than I ever will.
Possible Fact. Mannequins are probably more attractive than me when out of clothes as well but I’d rather not lead into a conversation about my genetils.
I often get told that my grip on reality isn’t too tight and that my self esteem is lower than hell’s basement but I generally just dismiss these comments with a random self deprecating joke and then proceed with my day. However even I can recognise that I’ve got problems when I get mannequin envy to the point where I’m evoking violent fantasies similar to those I experience when I meet evangelical Christians.
Out in the city on my last shopping trip I was engaging in some casual banter with a sales assistant about an ill fitting pair of jeans. It went something like this.
SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.
ME: I’m not entirely convinced about the cut.
SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.
ME: What are your thoughts on renewable energy sources as a means of reducing greenhouse gas emissions?
SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally...
At this point I was distracted from our riveting conversation by a mannequin that I spotted out the corner of my eye. The mannequin was faceless; its skin colour could best be described as asylum wall grey; it only managed to stand upright with the assistance of a metal pole crudely bolted to its lower back, and most notably, it was wearing the same jeans as me- and it looked hot.
So what’s the real problem with this situation? No, I don’t have sexual fantasies about mannequins, although I did have a strange obsession with that movie ‘A Mom For Christmas.’ The real problem is that I bought the overpriced jeans despite feeling completely inadequate compared to the mannequin. I bought them in what can only be described as a reactionary and spiteful gesture towards the mannequin, the shop assistant, the shop assistants sniggering friend who was not previously mentioned in this story, and anyone who happened to make eye contact with me that day.
This is just one of the many convoluted reasons I use to justify my spending. At the moment I’m basically living on credit. I don’t actually have any of that stuff you use to buy things, you know what I mean, um, you give it to the person in the shop and they give you goods and or services, oh what’s it called, money? Yeah that’s it, money! So here are some of the completely logical reasons I’ve used to justify swiping the plastic and giving my autograph to retailers all over town.
You can never have too much black in your wardrobe.
You really need some colour in your wardrobe.
That fits perfectly.
That doesn’t really fit well but it’s cool.
That does not fit you at all but it’s a good price.
That t-shirt is a piece of art don’t deny your creative side the freedom of expression.
That sales assistant has been really helpful and nice, you should buy something.
That sales assistant is a fucking bitch, you should definitely buy something.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
And so on and so forth.
As I cleaned out my wardrobe recently I made a startling discovery. A large black bag, filled to the brim with bags of every shape, colour and size. I steadily filled the bag over the last year, depositing bags one by one after each stupid purchase. Standing alone in my bedroom face to face with the bag full of bags I was completely overwhelmed. The bag was a horrific reminder of my mounting credit card debt, and it also prompted a horrible realisation that I was far shallower than I’d ever care to admit, this really upset me.
I had to get it out of my house. Like a man possessed I swept up the bag, ran outside to the bin, threw it inside and before the lid had even slammed shut I was on the phone with a friend provoking an intellectual conversation to reassure myself that I was more than a retail whore.
The next morning as I attempted to finish cleaning out my wardrobe I stumbled made another shocking discovery; I found something so horrific that I can’t even write a lame joke about it in an attempt to soften my shame.
I found ANOTHER bag full of bags.
It's times like these I remember why I keep vodka in my wardrobe.
Cheers.
Marcs shirt $120.
Ksubi jeans $300.
A life of prostitution to pay off the credit card, priceless.
6 comments:
I hear ya sister, I have a problem too http://evolkween.blogspot.com/2007/11/hi-my-name-is-evol-and-i-have-problem.html
Ummm, ok, so that hyperlink didn't work and I know fuck all about HTML. My problem is buying cds.
Ummm, not to sound like a stalker, but were you by any chance at an 8:15pm screening of Shelter on Friday night? at the Melbourne Queer Film Festival? I think you were sitting two rows behind us....well someone who looked like the guy in the photo on this post was anyway! I was going to say howdy, but decided against it in case it wasn't you and I ended up looking like a complete nerd-freak in front of some random stranger. Anywho, if it was you - "Hello!".
i know a group you can join. i started with them in january. just when i got back from my holiday. it's called "debt collection".
line i've actually said in a store: ring it up, bitch!
that was a fun day.
But those jeans look totally hot on you...
LOL :P
A MOM FOR CHRISTMAS!!!!!!! GOLD.
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