My Fellow Women,
It is time to band together, arm in arm, and demand change. An issue that has plagued us for decades is ripe for a revolution, and I ask you, my sisters, to join me in this uprising. Let’s unite to create a better world for ourselves and for our daughters.
I do not even have to say the issue out loud. You are mouthing it with me. Nodding your heads. Alright Alright Alright.
All together now.
Department Store Fitting Rooms.
The green, florescent, cellulite-showcasing lighting that turns a beautiful woman into a zombie in a party dress. I walk into a fitting room and am immediately concerned that I developed swine flu while walking from my car to the women’s department.
Is there anything that takes away a woman’s confidence quite like a department store fitting room? I sometimes wonder if this is actually a long-running social experiment called, “How Much Will Women Still Pay on Clothes After Viewing Themselves In Lighting Designed to Break Their Spirit and Addle their Brains?” It’s that bad. We all know it.
My village and I have developed a fitting room survival system. Get in, try your clothes on, squint your eyes together so you view yourself in a blurry Glamour Shots-esque lens, spend no less than 5 seconds staring straight into the mirror because it will blind you quicker than a solar eclipse, and get the hell out. Keep your phone handy at all times. In the catastrophic event you stay too long, your friends will text you about how amazing you are, that you are not, and never have been, green, and that you do not look like a member of the zombie apocalypse.
This system was developed after a friend considered canceling her vacation because the Nordstrom fitting room convinced her that she had full body gangrene. This is not ok.
Recently, I needed some summer dresses. Like a drug-riddled celebrity, I wore my sunglasses inside the Macy’s fitting room in an effort to thwart the taunts of the horrible lighting. But I heard it anyway. “Beccaaaaaa (this fitting room sounded a lot like Vincent Price), why in God’s naaaaaaame do you leave the house looking like thissssss?” Even sporting Ray-Bans and eyes locked in full-squint, I was 3 feet tall, 45 feet wide and the color of rotten okra according to the fitting room mirror. As I considered using the built-in belt from the dress as a noose, it dawned on me.
A revolution. We are tired of marching into fitting rooms feeling like Cleopatra, but sulking out like Sylvia Plath looking for an oven. Done. I am not handing over my plastic to any store who doesn’t make an effort to make me feel like the million bucks we, collectively, spend. Join me in my call to action for softer lighting and a wall color that isn’t named “old scuzzy grunge.”
One fitting room at a time, ladies. We can do this.
(Loss Prevention?? How about crisis counselors.)