I make the mistake of shopping alone. Arm myself in the mall with a gift card and sulk through the hated mall in the early afternoon. I'm no girl when it comes to enjoying shopping. Unless I've got a boy in hand to tell me I'm 'sexy in this' or 'fuckin-a hot in that', then the shopping part of it is not my bag. I always feel stupid and self-conscious in the stores. The sales woman gets me right as I step through the door. I tell her I'm looking for jeans. They don't really have what I want, but the gift card means this is what I'm getting. It's cold and snow outside, and the store is filled with spring. Strappy pastel everywhere. It makes my mostly black and grey wearing brain ache like a decaying tooth. She's asking me my size. I glance down, as if my hips could talk in a language either one of us would understand. I say I'm not sure. I say maybe a 6 or an 8. Her size zero face scans me up and down. Frowns. And I'm sure I've done something wrong. My face fills hot blush. She grabs a handful of 4s in different varieties and says there's no way I'd need a 6. I never knew blondes swilling denim could make me feel so good.

The rest of the bored sales women gathered around the vacant dressing room waiting for me to come out in each different pair. They oooed and commented. Said the pockets were too small. The stitching too bright. Pulled at the waist. Picked favorites. Try those last pair on again with your boots, they said. We like the super low rise dark wash on you, they said. I finally walked out with a new pair of jeans, and the distinct feeling that I should never shop alone.