It has
nothing to do with the safety of the site’s credit card processing center. I will buy books on Amazon. I will buy handmade greeting cards on
etsy. But a pair of jeans or a swimsuit
that I cannot try on first? Never.
I am one of
those body type sizes that is not easy to fit.
My body type is one that should possibly purchase a 12, but is somehow secretly convinced that
the 8’s were made just for her. When I
walk into Nordstrom, I am slightly insulted that the 8’s don’t realize that
they are my size. The 8’s roll their
eyes at me and whisper to their smaller sisters (the 6’s) about how I am
delusional. Ultimately, the 14’s take
pity on me and promise they will be loose and comfy.
Sitting in
front of my computer and staring at the screen, some cute tops from Garnet Hill beckon. They come in an array of colors,
specific colors that I know look good on me.
The tops say, “Hey, MOV, we are basic.
We are flattering. And we are on
sale!”
Now, if I
was in the actual store and came across a cute top I like (which, sadly, is
rare—both parts of the equation are rare:
the shopping and the finding things I like), I would most certainly buy
three or four in different colors. Black
top, red top, white top, done!
I let my finger
hover over the mouse. Do I want to put
it in my virtual shopping basket? Oh,
look, free shipping! I finally commit.
The package
arrives two days later (with normal ground shipping, not the insanely priced SuperQuick
delivery); it is as if Garnet Hill had the tops already wrapped in tissue paper
and sealed in their special mailing envelope just waiting for me to place the
order (“She’ll do it,” Green Top whispers to Blue Top, “just you
wait. She’s impulsive!”).
With a
smugness normally reserved for volunteers in the African desert (“I am a good
person to help poor people in Africa” = “I am smart to save money by buying in
bulk and on sale”), I rip open the package.
There are my tops. The ones that
looked so cute on the 22-year-old college student model.
I take them
out of their protective plastic and spread them out on the sofa, like we are on
an awkward blind date through an Internet matchmaking service, and I might
offer them some ice-water or a glass of wine.
They look exactly like they did in the picture.
I take one
to the bedroom and try it on. And then I
cry. They are not tears of happiness,
but tears of disappointment and despair.
I am yet another woman the Internet has lied to, another victim of high
expectations and a non-Claudia Schiffer body.
It’s not
that the top does not fit. It does. It is the right size (umm, Large, thanks for asking)
and fits fine. It is just
unflattering. It just hangs on me, or
rather droops.
I wait ‘til The
Husband gets home to confront him with his wife’s poor judgment in Internet
clothing forays.
“What do you
think of this top?” I demand as he walks in the door balancing three bags of
groceries.
“It’s
fine. Where’d you get it? A garage sale?”
The shirt is
unfazed. The shirt seems indifferent to
the critique.
“No! Not a garage sale! I ordered it online!”
“Why?”
“Because I
needed a new shirt!”
“If you don’t
like it, send it back.”
I don’t tell
him that it’s not that easy. Oh, sure, I
could fill out the paperwork and go to the post office and mail the shirts back
in their special return envelope. Except for the fact that they were Final Sale, and Garnet Hill does not accept returns on Final Sale.
I keep the
shirts.
I plan to
sell them soon, maybe online or at a garage sale.
MOV 
