The night before we flew to Louisiana for Papa's funeral I went to the mall with Lobster to find an appropriate dress for the visitation and funeral. I didn't want solid black, but I wanted something conservative and appropriate for 90 degree weather in October. My first stop, of course, was Banana Republic. I pulled some sale dresses and headed to the dressing room where I was greeted by an employee who couldn't decide whether he wanted to be Miss Jay or Andre Leon Talley.
Despite explaining to him that I was looking for a dress for a funeral, he continued to bring me party dresses. Because, as he put it, "A funeral is just a different reason to have a celebration party." I was only mildly irritated that this stop was taking longer than necessary, and I continued to try things on. I wasn't finding the right thing in the appropriate shape for me. The "fashionisto" came and checked on me and entered my dressing room to survey whate I had tried on, dismissed and liked. One dress was beautiful and perfect, but the cut was too slim for my figure - sheaths are very difficult for me to wear (thank you, thunder thighs). When the Divo came in, and I explained to him the issue and that I was going to go ahead and keep looking, he immediately look stricken. "Honey, what size have you been trying on?" he asked. I replied that I was trying on 6's and 8's. "Oh, baby," he said forlornly. "Honey, you are in denial. You keep trying to stuff those plus sized curves into single digits sizes, and it is just not working for you."
.......?!?!?!?! Did you REALLY just say that to me?! REALLY?!
My previously minimal annoyance had officially reached my maximum offended threshold levels. I thanked him for his time and immediately left. Next stop? White House Black Market, where I somehow managed to stuff those plus-sized curves into a size 4 that fit like a glove. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you Jay Alexander-wannabe.