20nothing.com

I used to go shopping for clothes. But then I realized that boys have a ready-made metaphorical catwalk of garments, perfectly disposed of on their bedroom floor. Shirts, pants, boxer shorts and the occasional bow-tie, have often, again metaphorically, begged at me from that laundry pile.

“Please, Sall. Take me home. You can’t possibly wear that sparkly mini-dress out in public at eight o’clock in the morning.”

I rarely argue with the logic my imagination comes up with and so, because It said so, I wear the shirt home.

 

Everything in my wardrobe that doesn’t sparkle has been [donated] by ex-boyfriends, dates and DJs. My own laundry is a proverbial pile of St Vincent De Paul. If, you know, I had ever slept with a Vincent or a Paul.

 

The first time I decided to cut up my credit card and start handing out my phone number when I wanted a new outfit was during a particularly busy Sunday morning along the high way. I, through no (ahem) fault of my own, was minding my own business and walking (read: stumbling) along the sidewalk, daintily carrying my shoes like a lady, blinking rapidly to block the reflection of my sequinned skirt, when a passer-by (aptly?) inquired as to whether I was an off-duty prostitute.

He was half correct, I suppose, to be fair. But I didn’t have anything tangible to show for what I had spent the past seven hours doing. 

Sunglasses, probably, would have been the most beneficial accessory. 

 

My Nice Ex-Boyfriend lived exactly five hundred meters from my house. I know this because I did the walk of shame back to my own abode enough times to accurately count the steps. One mid-December morning, we decided to call it a night and stay in bed all day.

By five o’clock, considering it was my younger brothers birthday and I had a party I was supposed to arrive to at midday, I decided to leave and saunter (read: stumble) back to my house to get dressed.

Fate was sealed when I could not find my glittery party dress and, so, in his always-present kindness, Nice Ex-Boyfriend offered to lend me a T-shirt and boxer shorts for the journey.

“Thank you,” I was genuinely appreciative. “I will give them back to you tomorrow.” I genuinely thought I would.

The crawl (read: stumble) for the first two-hundred meters was pleasant. Many other similarly-minded people had also taken the opportunity to go for a dusk stroll. Lucky for them, they weren’t holding high heels and a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels while they did it, but I am sure they were having fun anyway. By meter three-hundred, my haute couture world was turned upside down when I had no choice but to walk through the thousand strange families who had huddled together for the annual Carols By Candlelight concert.

Kids skipped passed me while their parents pointed to the homeless girl (me) wearing Superman Y-fronts, bright orange V-neck and a smile.

 

I am pretty sure it was then that I decided to date boys who wore my size pant.

 

My brother, PG, asked if I could buy him shirts at the online American Apparel store. I was about to mock his eagerness to throw good money away on something he could just find and wear over his party dress and then, when the guy never calls, consider it part of the severance package. But then I remembered who I was talking to.

“Sure!”

I jumped online like I jump on my own version of stores.

 

Clicking through the thumbnail pictures of male models wearing various coloured cotton T-shirts was like Mr American Apparel had taken my Magic List out of my imagination and put it on the World Wide Web (…). Pretty boys smiled at me, metaphorically saying, “Buy me!” and I felt like I was at home.

“Um, excuse me,” I said to anyone who was listening. My dog. “How long have you been aware that it costs thirty-eight dollars to buy just one white T-shirt?”

Half of my mind was outraged at the joke on consumers. But the other half of me was deeply concerned that I had been selling myself short.

“I am probably going to have to start [borrowing] designer sunglasses to make all of this eligible for a tax write off,” I told the poodle.

 

Moonlighting as a stylist to compliment all of the other skills I have that don’t pay me money (See paragraph three), I took PG shopping with AM’s credit card. I threw jackets and shirts at him like they were going out of style and came up for air only when I noticed the Stunningly Beautiful Boy standing by the change rooms. He was wearing a faded black cotton cardigan that I knew immediately would go perfectly with my Sass & Bide jeans and orange flats.

“I think we should come here more often,” I told PG.

Upon arriving home, I stole all of his shirts. A date has been set to buy new ones next weekend.