This afternoon I stood in the dressing room at Ross, trying on a dress that had looked perfect on the rack. Ankle length – which is saying something since I am nearly 6 feet tall – black and white, slightly frilly chest that might flatter even my bosies (which have been, in fact, shrinking – I swear! Anyone who gets the slight movie reference here gets serious props.) – perfect to wear to my sister’s graduation. Spaghetti straps looked springy, and it was a look that I could pull off. But it just wasn’t right. It wasn’t that it didn’t fit, but no matter how much I smoothed and straightened, shrugged and wiggled, it just looked off. Maybe it was the fact that the stall was tiny, and the mirror smudged – or maybe my disheveled look, with semi-dirty hair thrown into a messy updo, (which matched perfectly the jeans with an ever-largening hole on the thigh and tshirt I threw on this morning) wasn’t the best. Maybe I could have bought it – it was a steal – and it would have looked great. But no…Maybe it was that little piece of frill that kept turning the wrong way to show a tiny line of inside-of-fabric.

In that moment, I came to grips with how much of a perfectionist I am. After all, to my right, on the “there’s just no way” hook, hung a cute brown and white  blouse that was perfect, but just a tiny bit see through, a very different and flowy grey piece which just reminded me a bit too much of a trash bag, the  shirt I had deemed “hideous” the moment it had hit my skin, the purple top that, after staring for minutes, I had discarded.

I also had another revelation. As I stood there, struggling to take off a pair of capris that made me look like a somewhat well dressed old lady, I thought of the book I could write about me. It would be just like all those chick lit books I love so much – the heroine, who is slightly imperfect in looks and temperament, but with such an endearing personality as to, by the end, win not only your heart but the heart of a similarly imperfect but great man who, though he is thirty and still single (which just cannot be right, as pointed out in the movie “Fever Pitch”) is actually perfectly viable and dependable – not to mention great in bed. However, I realized that if I wrote a book about me, I would not be endearing. Other girls, who were wont to read such fiction, would probably hate me – I’d hate me if I met me, I sometimes think. I lack the hips, fought against for years – in fact, I have a much bigger problem with pants falling off than not going on. I am not thirty without a husband, and do not lack admirers (just ones who are serious and will do more than pop in every month, on the month, to be sweet but very short). I am smart enough to intimidate, and, the icing on the cake is that I have a hard time finding and keeping female friends – cementing my troubles with being “endearing” to the gentler sex. In fact, if I step back more than three millimeters, I find I am doing very well.

Well, I thought as I sat there, if I would hate me if I met me out of jealousy, why do I spend so much time – here I won’t mince words – wallowing in self pity? It’s tough to realize that all those problems you thought were worth wallowing really aren’t. That you should be upbeat and happy and conquering the world. That wallowing should be the last thing on your mind, as you are so busy engaging in things that people in say, cell phone and asthma medication commercials do. Not to say that just because I look good in a mirror means I am happy, or should be happy, or that looks brings happiness, or that I even think my looks are so so great.

Well, I need more time to ponder this. The real reason I decided to come home and write this post was to talk on the funny story of my going to TJ Maxx and Ross, spend more than an hour perusing and trying on, only to leave empty handed.

So, I had spent nearly an hour in Ross. My cart had a suitcase I decided I could just as well get online, and the shirt that was a bit see through, and – here was the triumph – the green polo. I was pleased about that polo. It was the ultimate in prep casual, complete with little animal on the top left. However, as my stomach started to grumble – boding the end to my trip – I decided to finish up and go. I looked down to get the polo, and saw it was gone. It had been pulled out in the midst of my perusing and turn-arounds, and was doubtlessly lying on the floor somewhere. Feeling a bit of shame at this, I doubled it by placing my cart – surreptitiously – behind a rack and meandering out of the store, hoping no one noticed.

So I went home, with my two gallon jug of Nature’s Miracle odor remover and some flea ointment I picked up at the pet store. My attempt to dig myself out of the “letting yourself go” position had fallen on its face. But my life is a bit glamorous. After all, when I get home, I can write an (attemptedly witty) blog post. And we all know, everyone who’s anyone is cool enough to post blogs.