|NO, GODDAMNIT, I DO NOT WANT NEW SLIPPERS!!!|
It gets worse though. Not only do I hate to shop, but I hate when others buy clothes for me almost as much. I feel self-conscious when someone, like my mother-in-law, buys clothes for me. I feel like they're saying "You poor thing, can't even dress yourself, welp! Here's a bunch of stuff you didn't ask for!" I feel to a certain degree like a charity case, which isn't a good feeling, having actually grown up one. I want to say "Please don't. I don't not buy things out of poverty, though I'm not exactly rolling in cash, I don't buy things because I hate stores and people and looking at tags and the whole experience. And also, it would appear that I'm oddly shaped.
Not like Quasimodo shaped. But I guess whoever decided how plus sized clothing is supposed to fit didn't take into account that not all plus sized women have breasts down to their knees. They also seem to think that even a woman the size of Mama June should have spindly stick arms. So, to summarize: larger women are huge, have large pendulous breasts, tiny t-rex arms, and did I mention the calves and ankles of a bull elephant? And those are just the size 16s.
Plus, I don't know, Jeremy's mom seems determined to dress me like herself. I'm a very t-shirts and jeans kind of kid, and she's very...sequins? Crocheted collars and beaded accents? Not like those elements were twenty years ago, the stronghold of little old ladies, but still older than my years. I actually get this a lot, and weirdly only from guys parents. My ex-girlfriend's mom never seemed to have this problem, she was still trying to cope with the fact that her daughter was dating a woman, never mind how I dressed. But once a guy's mother had finally accepted that this very weird person was definitely here to stay for a while she would begin the process of trying to mold me into the only acceptable kind of woman for her precious little baby, herself. The only exception was my first live-in boyfriend's mom, who was already like me in that she didn't have time or energy for that shit and, if we're being honest, wasn't picky about who took her piece of shit son off her hands.
But I digress. Please don't make me go buy slippers.