Change Room Trauma

During the week I had to buy a dress. Rob’s work host a charity ball each year and because I’m not a frequenter of balls I had nothing to wear. The last one we went to I was heavily pregnant and wore approximately half a kilometre of maternity fabric but thankfully that dress has now been donated to charity where they can recycle it into a few sets of sheets or something.

So a shopping trip for a new dress was had.

It was one of those trips where you go into every shop and can’t find anything. It didn’t help that designers don’t make dresses in size ‘had-four-kids-and-tummy-looks-like-a-giant-bucket-of-playdoh’, and I didn’t fancy spending the GDP of a small nation on a frock either so I found it all a bit painful.

Amidst my frustration at not being able to find anything I liked or that fit properly, I couldn’t help but notice that the people who design changing rooms are complete idiots. I hate them.

I am not one of those women who try things on and then parade myself around the shop floor. I prefer to check out my fat rolls in the privacy of my own flourescent lit changing room .. preferably one that has MIRRORS. So you can imagine my irritation when I picked a dress off the rack and found this in the change room.

Maybe if it were a shop that sold earrings

How frickin ridiculous. I actually did try on a dress in there and it pissed me off so much that all I could see was half my face that I left.

Now I don’t know about you, but I’d take a wild guess and say that no woman in the galaxy would design a change room with a mirror like that.





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