I hate fitting rooms. It’s not really the happiest of experiences when you try to put on the, um, “hippest” clothes, only to find out in dismay that the clothes look horrible on you. And you’d have somebody waiting outside the dressing room, waiting for you to show them how you look.

You cower in one corner, begging to not show them how you look like. Then you’d get a stern voice coming from outside the dressing room, saying “Gerard Adrian, if you don’t come out here this very moment, I’ll leave you alone in the dressing room. And have that serpent-man who lives in the bowels of the mall come up there and eat you. And I’ll throw in a tear gas grenade in there as well. Just get the fuck out!”

A few tearful tantrum-filled minutes later, you would hesitantly open the dressing room door, in the shittiest clothes ever, and you’d find about twenty people (mostly women) staring at you and stifling their laughter because you’re dressed like a Mexican.

Yeah, I have like the shittiest childhood ever. Fuck you.


Anyway, what I really wanted to talk about is that I had the weirdest dressing room experience ever. It’s been years since I’ve been forced to dress up in those horrible Moose for Kids or Osh Kosh B’Gosh clothes (paired with those glow-in-the-dark Rambo slippers), and I’m actually doing my shopping alone as well. And hence begins the weird saga of me, my jeans, and that kinda cute saleslady who I’d totally bang provided that she’d have a paper bag over her head. Shut up.

Me: So I like this style. Where’s the dressing room?
Saleslady: There. *points to a mirror in a corner*
Me: Um, lady, these are jeans. Pants. I’m not taking my pants off in an exposed corner of your shop.
Saleslady: There. *points to a mirror in a corner*
Me: I. Know. It’s a fricking mirror. How can I change and check if these pants fit?
Saleslady: There. *points to the same fucking mirror in the same fucking corner*
Me: Fuck this. I’m leaving.
Saleslady: There. *goes to mirror in corner, pulls a rope, then curtains cover the mirror leaving me enough space to change my pants in. Just enough.*
Me: Oh. *Goes in*
Saleslady: Is et compee enap por yu, ser?
Me: *In the middle of taking pants off* What?
Saleslady: Is eet comfy enaf por yu, ser?
Me: … I… guess so.
Saleslady: Well, ser, how is da pants?
Me: I’m not yet done.
Saleslady: Eh nao?
Me: Not yet.
Saleslady: …
Me: …
Saleslady: Nao?
Me: I’m still halfway through putting the pants on dammit! Stop it!
Saleslady: …
Me: Okay, it looks good–
Saleslady: Eh ser, wat if I get you anader istayl?
Me: Eh? I wasn’t able to understand you, I’m still putting my own pants back on–
Saleslady: *pulls part of curtain off, hands me two pairs of pants, leaving me exposed* Ser, oh, these pants, dey look gud on you!
Me: HOLY CRAP WOMAN! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?
Saleslady: Bat these pants, dey look gud on yu!
Me: OKAY OKAY JUST CLOSE THE CURTIANS AGAIN!
Saleslady: Okey ser, jas tel me wen yur pinish k?
Me: JUST FUCKING CLOSE THE CURTAINS!
Saleslady: Ay. Sori po. *closes windows quickly*
Me: *grumbles* Holy fucking–
Saleslady: *opens curtains again* Wel ser, how are da pants po? I hab three more istayls por you to try–
Me: HOLY FUCK DON’T YOU EVER KNOCK OR SOMETHING?
Saleslady: I– I can’t knock.
Me: AND WHY IS THAT?
Saleslady: Bicos… der is no door.
Me: …
Saleslady: …
Me: …
Saleslady: …
Me: …
Saleslady: Yu will buy da pants, yes?

I swear, you can’t make this shit up. Good times.

So what about you? Any weird fitting room experiences?

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