The other day I walked into a new store in Soho called All Saints and pretty much had a flashback goth wet dream right there in my silver clogs. Their clothing is so fucking beautiful. Everything was black, white or silver, which (aside from the white) are totally my favorite colors! (If they’d stocked blue I would’ve dropped dead on the floor from joy.) I was in a hurry, on a mission, so I didn’t examine anything too closely, but made a mental note to browse their online store once I got home.
The angular model/salesgirls were kind of intimidating anyway, so I was looking forward to scanning everything closely in the comfort of my borrowed home. So yeah, I get home, go to their site and again practically wet myself with glee because their clothes go all the way up to size 14! Wow!
In New York City, the cuter boutiques pretty much only go up to a size eight and I’ve learned not to even bother asking for bigger sizes because experience has shown me that it’ll just wind up with some prepubescent-looking stick figure looking me up and down with horror and then smugly announcing that no, they don’t cater to the “larger” clientele. While my rational brain knows this should make me homicidal, the fact is, it only makes me feel like shit about myself. Because I’m doing my best to remain anti-depressant free, I avoid shopping unless it’s online.
Anyway, imagine my dismay as I’m trying to add up how much I’ll have to save for that beautiful leather jacket and extraordinary puff-skirt dress, when I notice a little notation marked “size guide.” Gulp. This can’t be good. My heart heavy, I click it and am ushered into the bad-news room.
Sure, they stock up to size 14. But only up to British 14, which is an American 10. So fuck you very much All Saints. I likey your clothing, but I dislikey your discrimination.
(I may still forgive you long enough to buy a pair of boots though. I’m such a whore.)