The third in a series of blush pink dresses I’ve ordered this year arrived in the mail the other day and I hate it; not just the color (because what about me says “pink dress”?), but the dress’s convoluted journey to my closet.
The weeks of scrolling one nameless online boutique after another, trying to eyeball decent options in the rows and rows of malnourished white teenagers and ethnically-ambiguous women with Dr. Miami-inspired proportions posing in awkward, unnatural stances that give no indication of how the dresses will look on a body and parsing through reviews for feedback from women with measurements similar to mine that led to me picking the best of some pretty “bleh” options and another week and a half before the dress arrived at my home to opening the package and rubbing some god-awful polyester/spandex blend between my fingers before trying it on and being disgusted at the cheaply-made, ill-fitting monstrosity in my mirror.
Hate. All of it.
I want to go to a mall that contains four robust department stores, a few mid-tier fashion chains, and a sprinkle of trendy, cheap fashion. I want the option of live mixing and matching high end with low end. I want to see clothes on fucking mannequins that are standing upright and not posed to run out of the blocks for a 400-meter dash. I want to touch fabric and assess fit before I open my wallet and once my money is spent, I want my clothes in my hands that day. Not in seven days or two-to-four days for nearly double the cost of the fucking purchase.
I want the security of physical stores. The thrill of carrying bags into my home after a successful shopping trip.
I want the lie that “online retail is more convenient” to die in the fiery pits of liar hell.
I don’t want to live in the future anymore.