The Evil Legion of Non-Standard Clothing Sizes Strikes Again!
Posted by mattS
I love ironing. I think anyone who knows me has probably heard a bit about that; either from me or my friends who at turns will make fun of this near-obsession of mine or agree with its awesomeness. And then ask me to iron something for them.
And it is awesome, I assure you.
Maybe it’s the instant gratification of the act; taking something wrinkled and unkempt and within a matter of minutes turning this shirt or pair of pants into a presentable, unblemished extension of yourself.
There’s the satisfaction in putting on something just ironed, like pulling on a sweatshirt just out of the dryer or wearing a new pair of socks. It’s comforting, it’s warm and clean. If you spray on a little starch in the process it smells fantastic, it really does. The faint, lingering aroma follows you around all day, reminding you no matter how shit your day has been at least your shirt is all set.
It’s like Edward Norton says in Fight Club, “It’s just, when you buy furniture; you tell yourself, that’s it. That’s the last sofa I’m gonna need. Whatever else happens, I’ve got that sofa problem handled.”
So whatever happens that day, you have that wrinkle problem handled.
Just go easy with the starch; you don’t want to go too far. Your shirts could start getting kind of shiny or some white starchy gunk can build up. Starch with caution, my friends.
If ironing has provided me anything however, it’s the confirmation that men are awesome and women are irrefutably insane.
I should probably explain.
I had the misfortune of attempting to iron a pair of women’s pants once. These weren’t for personal use I assure you, but as a favor to someone else. I limit my women’s clothes to fishnets and pink dresses when the situation is called for (this is a story for another time, and I’m sure you’ll thank me if that time never comes).
These pants were a nightmare.
I like to begin by matching up the seams and smoothing out the fabric. I think we can all agree that’s a pretty good place to start. This was not possible. It was like these pants had been intentionally stitched together with the aim in mind that no matter what one did that fabric would not lay flat. You couldn’t smooth it out, you couldn’t tug out a good starting position.
So instead when you started ironing the fabric would bunch up and unless you were moving at a snail’s pace you’d end up rolling over an inevitable wrinkle and press that in. Needless to say, I was not going to move at a snail’s pace. It was early—painfully early—when I was pressed into service. I was in no condition to be handling an iron. I was probably in no condition even to be standing.
I wasn’t fully awake yet, and chances are I was still drunk from the night before. All I wanted was to get back in bed. I didn’t have the give-a-shit at that god awful, still dark hour of the morning to iron a quarter inch an hour because someone wanted to stitch these pants together in an acid induced zigzagging pattern.
That experience threw a wrench in my ironing mojo, it threw me off my game. I went months without ironing after that, instead using my dryer an obscene amount to dewrinkle.
On top of my women’s ironing PTSD, I suffered some serious spray starch withdrawal.
What’s your deal women’s clothing?
I feel like all I hear are complaints against you, and I’m just talking about women hating their own clothes—I wasn’t even thinking about the guys harboring grudges against uncooperative bra clasps or the nefarious boner-defeating button fly.
Is there a conspiracy against women waged by women’s clothing manufacturers?
It seems the majority of complaints are about the sizing of women’s clothing. I don’t understand the number thing since that doesn’t appear to translate into anything more than the random assigning of numbers. Guys clothes are at least named based on their measurements, there’s some consistency. The most difficult thing a guy has to worry about is whether to go with a medium or large shirt. What’s that take? Five seconds of holding it up?
But women don’t have it that easy. While the numbers on a pair of man-pants actually stand for something, numbers assigned to an article of women’s clothing means absolutely nothing. Take this little tidbit from Wikipedia:
“The standard sizes have not had stable names, however. For example, the dimensions of two size 10 dresses from different companies, or even from the same company, may have grossly different dimensions; and both are almost certainly larger than the size 10 dimensions described in the US standard.”
No wonder shopping turns women into raving psychotics. I’m feeling a little unhinged just reading that.
So, let me get this straight. I’m a chick and I go shopping. I go into some store that I no doubt have a special store credit card from because it offered me half a percent off when I bought a $400 purse last month, and I try on a size 6 blue dress in, let’s call it, Style O (for oh my god that dress is so hot!) manufactured by Company X.
Are you telling me, Wikipedia (and I know you would never mislead me), that while the blue dress may fit me, the green one won’t, despite them both being size 6 by the same company and the same style at that?
Does this also means that once when my estrogen fueled shopping-induced indecision kicks in and I want to try the blue dress on again (you know, just in case, even though it’s totally not my color–but it’s on sale!) if I grab a different one then I’d tried on initially… it could actually be a different size physically even though both claim to be a Style O size 6?
Maybe that’s a little extreme of an example, but at the heart of it, that’s what happens isn’t it? I know there are different cuts, and with different materials the fabric may lay different; the size may depend on how it shrinks when you wash it and blahblahblah.
You’re still making sizes up arbitrarily, though, I don’t care if the pants are pleated or not.
But I think it’s more than just non-standard standardized sizing and vanity sizing so fat people feel thin without actually losing weight—lazy bitches. I think there’s a real conspiracy here. I think there’s a smoky boardroom somewhere where only the table is lit up and all sitting around it this table are in shadow, where they plan and plot their evil garment assault on the what one can loosely define as the mentally stability of women around the world.
Like the Legion of Doom—and if you didn’t realize I was referencing the Legion of Doom from Super Friends, then just go away—so, like the Legion of Doom, it isn’t the chaotic sizing of women’s clothes that is their aim, that’s just the puzzle to distract the Super Friends.
This dastardly group is no doubt funded by diet food manufacturers. Slim Fast, Nutrisystem, Weight Watchers, Atkins and Smart Ones frozen dinners—and yeah, I’m looking at you Jenny Craig, you bitch—I know you’re behind this.
OK, it’s like when Lex Luthor used mind control to make the Super Friends steal all these priceless artifacts. He wasn’t after those artifacts, he didn’t care about them. He wanted the Super Friends to turn themselves in, walking right into his trap so he could shoot them all into the sun and turn everyone on Earth in Bizarros and Cheetahs.
See? It’s just like that.
Fucking with “standardized” sizes isn’t your endgame, you’re fucking with these sizes so everyone feels fat unless they’re some anorexic Asian tween who’s a triple-0 or -2 or however you size that shit. Subzero sizes? Are there really subzero sizes? You want women to feel that fat?
I’ll be the first one to tell you there are some fat chicks out there. Check out the People of Walmart for five seconds and you’ll have all the proof you need that obesity and shamelessness are running rampant throughout the country. (And Tweety Bird tattoos)
There are way too many pumpkin skirts cruising around just Buffalo alone for my liking, but subzero sizing? 0000? Really? Just put one zero on it and be done with it. At that point, just call them what they are: children’s clothes.
There’s something seriously wrong with women’s clothing, far more serious than a pair of pants refusing to be properly ironed when I’m half asleep. I’m convinced this sizing conspiracy could be the root of the general state of crazy the female species exhibits, previously believed simply to be a result of having two X chromosomes.
About mattSCouch potato, burrito aficionado, whiskey sour drinker, handyman, writer of interesting things.
Posted on July 23, 2011, in Rant and tagged Asian, Atkins, Bizarro, boner, bra, Buffalo, button fly, Cheetah, Edward Norton, Fight Club, fupa, Hall of Doom, ironing, Jenny Craig, Legion of Doom, Lex Luthor, Nutrisystem, People of Walmart, PTSD, pumpkin skirt, seams, Slim Fast, Smart Ones, spray starch, standardized sizing, subzero sizes, Super Friends, Tinman, tween, Tweety Bird, Walmart, Weight Watchers. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.