pre-fashion show fitting trip

My girlfriend was asked to participate in a fashion show, and yesterday we went to the store that’s running it so she could be fitted and her outfits chosen.  My own sense of fashion had a 28 year late start, so I did not feel remotely competent to contribute, and since I was basically just in the way I went and sat in the movie-theater seats they had outside the dressing rooms.  (A comfy place for gender-role men to sit while gender-role women try on clothes is a definite source of bonus points in my book.  I can‘t count the number of times I have stood around in the impromptu Boyfriend Holding Pen that forms outside dressing rooms.  We all stand there uncomfortably, competing for who can look the most supportive while remaining suitably manly.  You know what I mean, you‘ve seen them too.)

I had brought a book to read (Hesse’s Siddharta fits right in my pocket) but was distracted from it by the music, which wandered between 80s standards, 90s pop, and euro-techno before settling into an entire Bloodhound Gang album.  Do you remember these guys?  (If you weren’t in school around the turn of the century you are not required to.)  They were the ones with that song about “do(ing) it like they do on the Discovery Channel” which apparently is “doggy style so we can both watch X-Files.”  I had forgotten how catchy and how utterly filthy their songs are.

Polite and fashionable people wandered around the store examining super-expensive clothes (a pair of men’s shorts was 89 Euro, about $140!) while the bland-voiced singer recited an ode to a porn star, discussed premature ejaculation, and informed us of his onanistic tendencies.  In detail.

All in all it was an above average shopping trip.