I posted this elsewhere a long while ago, but it still very much applies, so I’m recycling it here.

So, seeing as how we are in a recession, I’m trying to shove cornstalks into my gas tank, it would be cheaper to buy a herd of cattle than a carton of milk, and I haven’t made bonus in two weeks, I decided yesterday would be a good day to go shopping. It’s my civic duty to stimulate the economy, after all. Anyhow, I was on my usual journey to the Junior’s department, when I was led astray into the mysterious land of “Misses.” First, I would like to address the category of “Misses.” What in the hell does that mean? “Sportswear” I get—grandmother gear, if you will. “Petite’s” had a friendly sign letting me know that I was ineligible after nursery school. “Misses,” though, is something I’ve never quite understood. It sounds like something you would wear with flats to a funeral, but is actually classy clothes for real adults. Who knew! I had a moment of rapture and realization in the sundress racks and decided to enter the dressing room to reflect. This is where I began to get disoriented. I tried on approximately 20 dresses in “my size” and almost paged someone to make sure I had not entered Narnia or a fun-house mirror. As it turns out, since Junior’s is made for 12 year olds, having absolutely no feminine parts to speak of is an asset. No boobs, no butt, no problem. Real lady clothes just leave gaping holes and a complex. I tell all of this just to let you know if you see me in the Wal-Mart twenty years from now wearing pink Unionbay shorts and a Dawson’s Creek tank top, it’s not by choice.

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