I was thinking that maybe fitting rooms have mirrors and lighting like that so that people know exactly what they're getting, so that they don't buy things that they'll later regret. But then that doesn't make much sense. Stores want our business, so you think they'd do anything to make a sale. They'd have the mirrors and lighting working in our favor. But that's never really the case, is it?
For me, fitting rooms have always been a "moment of truth" spot. A place where I figure out just how much of a failure I am. They have been a place of frustration, a place of tears, a place of reluctant settling. Even in an enclosed, locked room, all by myself, I've never felt so exposed as I do when I go to try something on.
Every odd is against us, and we know that. That's why fitting rooms exist. Trial and error.
I try to avoid stores where the only way to get a fitting room is to interact with a salesperson. I always feel like I need to apologize. "Um... sorry, can I get a fitting room unlocked? Sorry. Thanks. Sorry." Or if they ask, "How many do you have?" I always feel like I hear them say, "What size are you?"
The worst is facing the salesperson after an unsuccessful fitting room trial. They always ask, "Did those work for you?" like they had some kind of expectation like I did. And having to tell them "no" is like having to tell your Grandma that her casserole was nasty. You feel bad, but you know you can't lie. And even if you do lie, she'd know.
Tonight in the fitting room I was in dresses, and therefore reminded of just how much I don't like about my body.
Whenever we try on something particularly unflattering, we always pull on the item, try and adjust it, just kidding ourselves for a moment. I found myself doing that a lot.
This dress makes me look pregnant, this one makes me self-conscious about my legs, this one shows too much cleavage, this one is too see-through, this one is too snug on my stomach, etc.
All the while I'm adjusting the dresses, trying to fix the problems. But in the end, we say to ourselves (or maybe even to the person with us, standing outside the fitting room) "It doesn't fit."
And the errors make the trials a little less exciting each time.
The mirrors in the fitting room also gave me a chance to get an up-close glimpse at my face. Tonight I was particularly discouraged by what I saw.
I'm 21 years old and I still have acne.
I don't have the red, pizza-face acne that we see on "before" pictures in the Proactiv commercials. I have a million little under-the-surface bumps that make my face look like an aerial view of the Rocky Mountains.
Furthermore, the acne treatment cream I've been using for quite some time now has done nothing but dry my face out. So in the light of this fitting room, up-close in the mirror, I can see my skin peeling and flaking off. Under my eyes, beneath my eyebrows, around the corners of my nose. Pieces of skin are stuck to my hair and I pull them out tediously, grossed out.
And I wonder if my acne will ever go away or if my skin will just flake away, layer by layer, until I have no face.
Every night, when I go through my tiresome regimen of washing my face, I look at myself with no makeup, and endless blemishes, and I wonder, briefly, if maybe this is how it's supposed to be. Real. Uncovered. Flaws and all.
But we all must leave the bathroom, the fitting room, and face the world. Maybe that's what I don't like about fitting rooms. That we have to come out. That we can't stay in there forever and cry and hide our imperfect faces and bodies. We have to make due with what we have.
But, I did find a dress. And it fits. My face I'm still working on.
