We arrived back in the UK last night after our two weeks away, and though the warm sunny bit of the holiday has come to a sad close, there is one last festivity to attend to; the wedding of some friends will take place tomorrow afternoon. So one last hurrah then.
So to kill some time this afternoon, we did some perusing of the shops in Glasgow. It is there that I achieved critical mass in my ongoing frustration with mass market retail sizing, and hence drafted the following letter. First in my head, and then on my blog.
Dear (The) Gap,
Let me preface this correspondence by saying that I love you. I always have loved your classic khakis, and though your t-shirt quality has waned in recent years, I have always taken pains to not hold this against you. Certainly others have been taken in by the siren song of the burnout layering tee and the fiscal enticement of viscose, and therefore I cannot put this on your shoulders alone.
But dear (The) Gap, I do not love you blindly, as a junkie loves a fix, and therefore feel that is is not only a liberty, but an out and out duty that I draw your attention to the absolute crackheadedness that is your garment sizing. To put it plainly, what the "f" is going on with your gianormous sizing!?
To call it "size creep" is an understatement so vast it threatens to make the space-time continuum seem like the scientific equivalent of a mini golf putting range. Let me be blunt. I have worn about the same size since I can remember: US 10, UK 14, Italy 46, etc, etc.
I now refer you to the below photos of me trying on a pile of stuff in your version of my size.
(The) Gap, please cut the crap. You're not helping. The obesity epidemic is so much more than an aesthetic or self-esteem problem...it cannot be solved by simply rearranging the numbers. Apart from that, this size creep only serves to make us question our collective sanity.
I am always here for you when you are ready to remember what size 10 looks like.
(The) Highland Fashionista