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A gaggle of high school girls jostles past me, laughing and chattering and bumping their huge Dynamite bags against me. I clutch my purse on my shoulder, stepping around a lady with a stroller who has stopped to peruse Aldo’s shoes, and then scuttle sideways into Ricky’s. The mannequins by the door stare blankly over my head, but one is wearing a cute blue sweater, and I glance around the store until I see it hanging in the back corner. On my way back there I find a few other tops to try on, and a salesgirl soon appears, offering to start a change room for me.
I pull the sweater off the hanger and slip it over my head in anticipation of seeing myself look as poised as the mannequin outside. Somehow it doesn’t look the same on me. I tug at the hem, shrug my shoulders, twist around in the mirror. No, it doesn’t fit. I toss it into the corner and try on a khaki green blouse. It won’t even button up. It joins the first top, as do the next three. Then finally I find something that looks good. I study it, a slight smile gracing my lips. The maroon color compliments my skin and the cut accents my figure. I look professional wearing this. I’ll take it.
A second browse through Ricky’s reveals nothing else I want to try on, so I pay for my maroon top and once again join the crowd of shoppers in the mall. I wander along, another fish in the stream, until I land in another store.
The medium-sized clothes that fit me at Ricky’s are too tight here. I emerge from the change room, feeling fat, to go find all my choices again in a larger size. Once again, things that looked cute on the hanger don’t fit me. I eye the model in the advertisement above the cashier’s counter. She’s slender, gorgeous, smiling, her hair and makeup done perfectly, her clothes the latest fashions. I stare into the mirror, wondering why I can’t achieve that look. I tug at the blouse, undo the top button and then do it up again. To take it or not to take it, that is the question. If it requires that much thought, then it doesn’t fit, so I add it to the pile of discarded items and exit the store.
I pass several stores without entering, as the mannequins in the window don’t attract my attention. I want something classy and sexy, not shaggy and ripped. Then I try another store, only to exit after discovering what the price tags say. I’m not prepared to pay that much for my clothes, even if they will make me look as sophisticated as the model on the poster. In Reitman’s, I twist and turn in front of the mirror, and wish I had some friends here to provide second opinions. I’m not sure and I hate buying things that I later don’t wear because I decide too late that I don’t like them.
I’m becoming indecisive, disappointed at not finding what I was looking for, disgruntled by the things that don’t fit, upset at both the prices and my budget. If I had a million dollars, I could look like that model in the window. I glance at her again. Even if I was wearing the clothes that she is, I wouldn’t look like her. What is it she has that I want? Confidence. Beauty. Poise. Things that I cannot buy at the mall, no matter how much money I spend or how many clothes I try on. I gather up my shopping bags and walk out.
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