Mallrat I'm not

Before I begin:

My apologies for the inconsistent blogging. I just realized that my last blog was quite depressing; with no follow-up, I'm sure most of you have assumed that I've plunged into an isolating, anti-blogging depression. I assure you, my week got better and I've not had any of my work deleted by L.A. since last Monday.

Back to today:

A friend at work and I were discussing my perpetual shopping dilemmas. I am in such desperate need of a wardrobe that, upon entering any shopping centre, I get overwhelmed. If I look at pants, my brain gets obsessed with the fact that I have no shoes to wear the pants with. Or shirts. And if I look at shirts, I can't get over the absence of a good bra. Or necklace. And if I look at necklaces, I get all depressed because there's no point buying jewelry when there's nothing to wear it with. And so I go home empty-handed. On top of these mental blocks, my body seems to be half a size bigger or smaller than clothing is designed for. And if I were to gain or lose that perfect half size, my legs and arms would still be abnormally orangutan-like, my feet would still have arches that seem to curve away in repulsion from all footwear options, and my shoulders would still better suit a linebacker.

Our shopping conversation ended with a very simple conclusion: I am Woody Allen at the mall. The calm, laid-back, intelligent woman that I can sometimes pass for morphs into a neurotic, indecisive, jittery mess. (And those changing-room mirrors screw with my body image to the point where Woody and I could be twins).

So today, after work, I took a deep breath and made myself shop. I was not allowed to leave the mall without buying something. Which means that I tried on piles of clothing, almost putting my back out with the awkward neck- and armholes that didn't align with the actual positions of my neck and arms. I tried on long, baggy sweater dresses that made me look like a ballet dancer who let herself go. I tried on short little jumpers that made me look like I haven't been shopping since the third grade.

I have too much personal style to wear the crazy trends. Nothing looks like me. And my style isn't flamboyant by any means. It's just not uber-trendy, super-tight, hip-hop-video ready. Maybe I watch too much America's Next Top Model, but as I was shopping I kept trying to accurately define in a catchy soundbite what my style is. I think I got it:

My personal style is Audrey Hepburn at camp.

Yep, that's me. I like classic, well-made, well-fitted clothing. I like scarves, solid colors and tasteful stripes. I don't like things that only work for one season. But I'm not glamorous enough to be a true Audrey. I wear neutrals. Brown is my obsession. I like a little ruggedness: the odd hoodie, chunky sweaters and khaki capris. So I'm Audrey at camp.

It took four agonizing hours (and $150), but I came home with four shirts, two tanks, a bracelet and three pairs of socks. No pants, no shoes, no bra. But at least it's a start.

I may be the only girl on the planet who has to convince herself to shop more often....