Went shopping yesterday with my daddy’s credit card.
Not for myself, of course.
I’m not going shopping any more. New leaf. Restraint, baby. That’s how I plan on rolling.
I went to a big huge wholesaler’s fair to buy for autumn/winter. 32 degrees celsius, walking around a Heathrow sized collection of exhibit halls, buying christmas decorations and woolen jumpers in bulk.
Oh the weirdness of it. I was of course sweatier than a priest watching a nativity play, but I looked pretty fucking good.
Picking my spots in this instance seems to have been a good thing: they are now at the scar tissue phase. Still gross but now at least coverable with makeup.
For my business woman look, I channeled “classy hooker”, and wore my wedding dress for the first time since the fateful day I signed my sex life’s death sentence.
It’s not a proper wedding dress, it’s a 40s style not toooo slutty orange-red dress. It’s not too slutty really, except I forgot all about the boobage- it has a tendency to unleash one boob as the front is kind of open. It would have been fine with some tit tape, but this is something I don’t posess because my tits don’t tend to fall out of my clothes, being pretty damn small. Every time I buy a bra with a c-cup, I’m lying to myself. Then I have to go around trying to keep the damn things from gaping open because I’m not a c cup at all, am I? Maybe for two days of the month when those bastard hormones throw me a silver lining and make me believe I have decent boobs. Then I buy bras, and bingo, I don’t have a single bra that fits properly. Ok enough about my tits.
Anyway. I looked pretty good, but I had to keep checking the cleavage situation.
I hated how I looked on my wedding day- the dress looked cool but I was having a bad face and hair day and the official photographer actually wound up having some degenerative illness that meant our official wedding photos were all totally out of focus and blurry. All that was left was the millions of horrible, family-quality snaps that are now displayed proudly in all my family’s homes… urgh. The worst thing about horrible photos is when everyone else coos over them. YOU LOOKED AMAZING! Really? If that’s me looking amazing, then I clearly have a case of the “don’t know I’m ugly”s. It’s depressing.
But my hair is nicer now, and I strutted around the fair like I had a right to be there, among all the serious professional people.
I bought clothes for the winter, metaphorically cool and confident in my choices while little beads of sweat popped into existence on my back.
The suppliers are friendly, they remember me and they ask about my dad. “Where’s the big man? Well well, he sent his beautiful daughter instead! Ah!”
The first guy, probably around 40, quite attractive in a slightly too short kind of way, took me aside and worked his charm.
He laid it on thick, complimenting me, complimenting my taste… a little too much slime, but flattering nonetheless. I know it’s just part of the deal, they hope to extract a few thousand euros from me, so they want to make me feel appreciated and valued, and most of all, afraid to offend them.
“I tell you what… I give you a big discount. First, because you make a nice big order with us, yes? Second, you are your father’s daughter. Third…. (looks a little hesitant, not sure if he’s crossing a line..) you are a beautiful woman.”
I try to smother the happy blush that threatens to erupt all over my face.
I reply “really? I thought the first two reasons would suffice…”
He freezes the slimey grin on his face, while his eyes allow some annoyance to filter through.
“Ha ha yes, yes. Come now, would you like a nice coffee?”
He stops me before I drink the coffee.
“You have to be careful, it’s hot.”
“Yes, you see, you may burn the tongue… the lips. It happens sometimes, you drink something hot, it burns you.”
I stifle the “yeah it’s not the first time I drink a hot beverage” that’s about to trip on out of my mouth, and instead jovially agree that it’s very annoying when a drink burns you.
“Yes yes! I have often burnt my mouth! Oh it feels very unpleasant!” he tells me.
This continues for a while. I throw back some vague agreement that burning your mouth isn’t good, and he repeats it. Eventually I sip the coffee, which at this point is more likely to be burnt by the heat of my mouth than vice versa.
He raises his eyebrows. I tell him I am unscathed by the coffee.
He sees another customer and excuses himself with the bullshit that “he will just get distracted by my beauty while I’m doing the order, so he will leave me with his colleague.” Oh wow it’s so slimey, but man I do feel better about myself. What a ridiculously transparent manipulation, and oh how it works.
I order a decent but not excessive amount with the friendly female colleague. She fawns over my “beautiful” name, but otherwise doesn’t try too hard.
I go to the desk to confirm my selection, decide on payment, etc.
Signor Smooth makes a show of insisting to his colleagues that I get a 20% discount on ALL my orders. They do a routine of raised eyebrows and “no! you can’t! Oh ok then, if you insist!” I try to muster an expression that implies I don’t buy it for a second, I’m not phased by this behaviour, but I am also friendly and nice.
I thank them and leave. Signor Smooth begs the liberty of kissing my on the cheeks before I go.
I struggle with my face until I round the corner, then collapse into beaming.
My dad is gonna be so happy he sent me, I’m so happy I dressed up nice and didn’t start rambling about stuff like the last time I went buying. This time I got discounts! Woop woop!
I’m so proud of my feminine wiles and business sense, I call my dad to report back.
“Hi dad, just made an order with Smooth and X, and Y… Y didn’t have much but I got some dresses because they were cheaper there.”
“Ah great, yeah they’re all going out of business… it’s the recession. Yeah get lots at Smooth, they have some nice stuff, and they give a good discount…. 30%”
I’m like, what? 30%? This is bullshit. They give me 20% off for my pretty face and a flash of leg, and my dad gets 30%? AND I have to endure the overexaggerated adoration and allow cheek kisses? My dad says he’ll get onto them and refuse to pay unless they give the proper discount. But I’m a little humiliated. What’s my dad got that I don’t? (Yeah yeah, a business, and money)
My businesswoman ego took a little knock there… although it doesn’t entirely negate the feel good factor of receiving even the most fake of compliments. YAY crappy female brain software! (No offense to other women- if you’re capable of feeling good about yourself despite other people’s opinion, which I DOUBT, then you won’t care if I insult your brain software, will you?)
I moved on to the next supplier. This time a pretty good looking guy probably late 30s (it’s hard to tell with Italians, their faces express diet more than age) shakes my hand warmly and enquires as to my partner. Ah… he’s not here this time. We broke up.
Oh! You’re single!
It’s better single, no?
I just broke up with my girlfriend too, I’m enjoying being single…
I flirt with the idea of scoring one of my dad’s business associates, and decided a resounding NO, not even if they were actually interested and not just friendly or trying to make a sale. This supplier is much less sleazy, in fact he’s just a nice friendly guy.
He tells me my dad made a beautiful daughter, but very long!
I don’t know whether that’s a compliment, I suppose he’s calling me tall but there’s another word for tall. It’s probably a compliment. OF course it is. I fold it away in my compliment box anyway.
The rest of my day was spent explaining to various disappointed wholesalers that I have split with my husband, and selecting clothes for my shop to sell from a range of increasingly expensive and unexciting stuff that I would never wear. But customers hopefully will.
I caved in my diet (again) and had a toblerone and a large pack of crisps I didn’t even enjoy because they tasted kind of burnt.
I got a packed train home, sleeping soundly for most of the journey except for a few times when I jolted awake, which always includes me yelping with surprise, my jaws clattering together and my whole body jerking weirdly.
The woman opposite me seemed amused.
The pretty sexy guy opposite me observed me cooly with his legs crossed and tanned, bare feet in loafers. No socks, that’s sick.
The crossed legs and bare feet in shoes thing made it easier for me to feel unashamed at my full body spasms and intermittent yelping in front of a hot guy.
That’s right, the attractiveness meter is something I can never switch off. It’s exhausting constantly regulating my mood and emotions based on how hot people make me feel and how hot I find them and ahhhh it’s something I need to work on.
Ooh, and I discovered I have been measuring myself wrong.
I have a measuring tape that has cms on one side and what I presumed were inches on the other. But then I measured myself and was really upset because I appeared to have hips measuring 45 inches. And that’s massive. but then last night as I was measuring myself for a corset I swear I was only window shopping for online, I found that the second side of my measuring tape is actually not inches at all, it’s like… in increments of 2cms. For some reason. So I am rejoicing now because I don’t measure that much more than lots of famous people. I have wide hips and shoulders but I need to get my waist smaller so I can be an hourglass. I need to lose like 3 or 4 inches from my waist and then I will be an hourglass shape.
So I need a corset.
Or to do excercises.
I NEED A CORSET.
I am planning on sleeping in a waist cincher belt and see how that goes.
I will of course keep you posted.