I decided to buy a new shirt recently, eventually settling on a navy one with white polka dots. I’ll wear it until the armpits disintegrate from over-zealous use of spray deodorant or until the buttons fall off from taking it off over my head too many times.
The process of acquiring this shirt led me from shop to shop around Dublin city centre on a lunchbreak from work, and down a path of indecision, humiliation and self-loathing. Particularly self-loathing.
Buying clothes is not as straightforward or as pleasant an experience as you may think. The drama unfolds like this: I enter shop X, and look for the gents’ section. This is usually upstairs, most likely explained by the fact that men often go shopping for a particular item and will seek it out when required, unlike women, who will walk miles scanning window after window until they have “saved” hundreds of euro on bargains they didn’t know they needed. Sweeping generalisation, but you know what I mean.
On entering the men’s section of most shops, you are presented with a sea of 19-year-old shop assistants.
The male of the species is often about 7ft tall, chiselled from beard to toenail and dancing ever so slightly as he moves through the “store” (as he calls it), folding clothes. He is chatting to his female colleagues, all Amazonian supermodel types. They are probably talking about music by bands I’ve never heard of. The music I’ve never heard of is playing really loudly in the shop, and I feel like I should also be dancing just a little as I walk around the “store”.
‘Old-timer’
“Can I help you with anything?” one of the droids inquires, making sure not to say the words “old-timer” out loud.
“Well, if you arrange that I lose about a stone, become about 2ft taller, and travel back about 10 years before I agreed to that huge mortgage, that would be great. Besides that, no thanks, I’m just ‘having a look’,” I say, partly out loud and partly in my mind.
I sift through rails of shirts that would quite frankly look ridiculous on a pasty Irishman the wrong side of 39½. I would fear for my personal security near playgrounds if I were to walk out in some of the items on offer, even though they look well on the droids. Eventually I settle on a red and black plaid shirt that I feel is appropriate for a reluctantly middle-aged Neil Young fan and I head to the dressing room.
Changing-room drama
Stop the lights. Literally. Is there a reason dressing-room lights must be so bright? Do I need the blemishes on my face emphasised and pointed out by fluorescent hue? Is my nose really that red? I’m pretty sure I haven’t been drinking yet today. Bad enough I am presumed a shoplifter (the changing-room droid has counted how many items I have and will count them again on the way out) but I am made feel aesthetically flawed too. And all this to get me to part with my hard-earned. I’m beginning to regret this shopping trip.
The options are limited. I can stay in the changing room and maybe put on my sunglasses to tone down the red nose acne thing, or I could walk back out into the shop in my odd socks, past the person who thinks I’m a thief, and stand beside the oversized child shop assistants for a look in the mirrors out there. Suddenly it feels like I’m a priest trying to escape the lingerie section of a department store. I hand the shirt back and visit a record shop. Ah, vinyl.
Eventually I venture into another clothes shop. This one is very darkly lit and the decor is sort of black (all the bright lights are in the changing rooms, presumably). I spot another shirt, navy with white dots, that looks suitable. Size is medium, which seems reasonable. Do I need to go through the changing-room thing again? Suppose not. So off I go back to the office with my new garment, happy as Larry that it’s finally all over.
But of course it is not over. Later I try on my new purchase and have a quick look in my dimly lit mirror at home. I’m looking good. In fact, all is going swimmingly until I sit down. It quickly emerges that my new shirt is not medium enough and is only designed to fit people who do not sit down at all. The following day I return to the shop and ask one of the droids if they have a shirt suitably sized for me. “Certainly sir, we do have that in large.”
I take it, but the next time I will be shopping online, where my self-esteem will remain intact. Twitter @paddylogue Michael Harding is on leave