I dug through the sales rack in search of that elusive thing – the outfit that would make look non-ugly, make me feel pretty, and turn me into an all-around fabulous person. I know – it's an impossible order for a discounted cotton/poly blend.
Another woman was searching for that impossible thing, too. Her boyfriend was with her. He pointed to a short black dress with a swirly fuchsia and silver print. "What about this one?" She grabbed the size 2 and held it against her body. She walked over to the mirror -- one of those full-length ones that follow you all over the mall, covering every empty wall, begging you to glance at the reflection for just one second and see yourself like everybody else in the entire world sees you, to take in every single flaw, to pick apart every single thing that's wrong: your posture, the shape of your chin, the way that one eyebrow is never the right shape, your giant linebacker shoulders – to realize that no matter how hard you try, your best will never ever be good enough because you will never ever measure up.
(God, I hate those mirrors.)
She looked in the mirror and surveyed the reflection. Turned around. Sucked in her stomach. Stood up a little higher on her toes. She shook her head.
"This will never fit me," she said and shoved the dress onto the rack. It hung haphazardly from the hanger, in that sad way a cheap spaghetti-strapped dress will right before it slides off the hanger and lands on the floor.
"Here," said her boyfriend and handed her a larger size. She gave him a look and shook her head. He put the dress back.
She picked up a short denim skirt with a wistful look in her eyes. "Do you think I'll ever be this small?" She pulled it against her waist, seeing how many inches her body overlapped, seeing how far she was from perfection.
"No." He just said it, like it was no big deal, like it was just a fact. She slammed the skirt back onto the bar and started pawing through the clearance rack.
"You aren't built to be that small," he said, like it wasn't the most devastating thing you can hear when you're trying on clothes and feeling like a fat whale, like she wouldn't give practically anything to make her hipbones a little bit smaller, her ribcage a little bit tighter.
"I should be," she mumbled while pulling out another dress. She headed toward the fitting room with a dress that would never fit her and three that she desperately hoped would be too big. He grabbed her hand and she let him pull her back towards him.
"I love you just the way you are," he said like it would fix everything. She didn't say anything, just untangled her hand from his and disappeared into the fitting room. He sighed and leaned against a column, waiting for her. I went back to scouting through the size 12 clearance, wondering which piece I could squish myself into.
A few minutes later, I saw her in the three-way mirror in the fitting room hallway. She was modeling that size 10 for herself, trying to convince herself that it didn't look all that bad, that she wasn't all that fat or all that ugly. I wanted to shake her and tell her to stop being so stupid because she is so lucky. I wanted to tell her that it doesn't matter if she won't be a size 2 because she's so lucky so she should stop trying to sabotage herself. Somebody thinks she's perfect just the way she is and god, can't she see how lucky she is?
I didn't say anything, though. I locked myself into my own dressing room and did the shake-and-shimmy into the size 12s (Ha! Not even close, Thunder Thighs!), the size 14s (Too tight, Muffin Top!), and the size 16s (Too big? But how?). I gave up and went back to the clearance rack, looking for something I never did find.
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