The Woe of Shopping
As confessed before, I hate to shop. But my lack of nether garments rendered such an expedition necessary and thus I sallied forth, bravely. Well, not so bravely. With gritted teeth, is more like it.

I'm sure the majority of American women would have enjoyed themselves. Strolled around, did some browsing, perhaps tried on a few things just for fun. Made a few impulse buys. Spent time wandering through the summertime dresses with their bright flowers and small straps.

Me? I stalked in, clubbed a few pairs of jeans over the head and brought down the kill.

Well, that's what I wanted to do. But, unfortunately, I had to engage in my least-favorite activity of shopping trying things on. Ugh. I hate that repeated having to take your shoes off and guessing of sizes. Why in the name of holy dancing Jesus can't women's sizes be consistent? Men have it so easy. The walk into the men's department, go to the slacks, look for the 34 x 36 rack and pick them up. Shirts? Same deal, he's a 15/34. Doesn't even have to try the damned things on.

So why can't women be the same? Is it some freakish feminine psycho thing where women don't want to acknowledge in actual inches the size of their waist? I tried on jeans by three different makers and discovered I'm a size 8. And a size 10. And, fuck me, a size 12! What the hell is that? According to one maker I'm two sizes smaller than with another manufacturer? That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Then there's the whole S, M, L deal with shirts. Again, I'm all three sizes. It is impossible for a woman to walk into a store and buy something, anything, without trying it on because she'll have no clue if she's a fucking petite extra small or should be in the Busty Betty Department.