Giving back my backside

Unless you are actually an owl, I think it's pretty safe to assume you can't continually be checking out your own backside throughout the day, right? But still, somehow the people at H&M (and numerous other retail establishments - Victoria's Secret NOT being one of them, thank god) have decided that it is only right to allow me the possibility to look at myself from every conceivable angle while trying on clothes that I am not even sure will fit. So not only do I have to be shocked at my own poor choice in items (and sizes), but also in how absolutely horrendous they would look to the person walking down the corridor at work behind me. (It's like hotels that install 5x magnification mirrors in the bathroom. I don't need to see myself that close. It's just not healthy. Or normal.)

Worse still is that I have to (yes, I am being forced by little dressing room spirits) look at the rear view of the stuff I actually do like. Yesterday, this included a nice little summer dress. To my horror, not only were my shoulders similar to a linebacker-in-training, but I had some major roly-poly action happening in the bra region. Call me crazy, but I feel like ignorance is bliss here, and that I could have happily gone on with my life not having to know that my back looked like an overstuffed sausage.

But now that I had seen it, it was time to really get to know what was going on back there. I proceeded to flail and bend into every possible contortion I could imagine making during an average day at work, or at the store, or biking, just to see what other people must be seeing. I discovered lumpy muscles that must be prehistoric remnants of my swimming days, as well as multiple reasons why my bra was clearly a bad choice and needed to be burned immediately. The situation wasn't looking pretty. I had to get out of there.

Luckily, I had the clarity of mind to hang a long dress over one of the angled mirrors, preventing me from the temptation of staring at the car-wreck that was my rearview.

But at relaying this story to colleagues later in the evening, they all insisted it was of the utmost importance to know how your butt looks in things. I argue that I never have to look at my butt, so why do I have to know what it looks like? If someone else thinks it's so bad, they don't have to look. Yes, it was decided - ignorance was even better than the bowl of peanut M&Ms I had begun inhaling in my misery.

You know, I have enough to worry about with the front side of myself that I don't have to start up with the other multitude of angles available. It's taken me 27 years so far, and I am still coming to terms with the fact that my stomach isn't all that great. Why bring my butt, back and love handles into the discussion now? Clearly this must trace back to some innate masochism that is built into people. Like, we know if we pop that blister, it's going to take thirteen times as long to heal, and if we start picking at that practically nonexistent pimple in the morning, it will definitely be a volcano by our very important date in the evening. But still, we do it. All the time. It's like we can't help but try to make our daily lives as miserable as possible in the most minute ways conceivable. Or at least I can't.

Anyway, of course I ended up buying a couple of things I didn't need. And shockingly enough, they were my typical baggy, long tunic things - the tenty type of clothing that generally doesn't show anything, not even the fact that there is a human inside. You'd think if H&M actually wanted me to leave a satisfied customer (who has just purchased waaaaaaay more than I had anticipated), then they would strategise their fitting room approach a bit better.

First off, I would like a spray tan upon entry, possibly with someone to make my hair look decent. Secondly, some soft lighting that does not cause unnecessary shadows would be great. (Really, why do I always seem to have disgusting pores under dressing room lights?) Then maybe one single mirror with a moat around it so I can't get too close, as well as a slight angle backwards (since we all know that in reality that is really how tall and slender I look anyway). To top it off, I would like random people who do not seem like they work there to give me honest opinions. Honest, of course, being the operative word here. And I mean it. I don't want to know what I think the back looks like. I am way too judgmental for that. I would rather someone else just tell me, and I will take their word for it. That way I still know if it's a good or bad choice, but my self-esteem survives another day.

Of course it would be ideal to not be so self-critical and not care if images of my back in tight white tops inspires Jouel to call me Rotundra. And I would love that. But let's just be honest - I'm so not there yet. And until I do get there, I would really appreciate more of a teamwork attitude from my friends at H&M. You take back my backside, and I will buy more crap. Deal?