A few days ago, I heard one of the most horrific statements I could’ve possibly come across: “Ayer encontré qué llevarme a la gala del sábado.”
For those who don’t know, this is an ancient Spanish spell meaning: “you’re fucked.” I’m half?kidding. It actually means, “Yesterday I found something to wear to Saturday’s gala,” said by a dear friend who was attending the same event I was — the same event I had somehow failed to realize was formal.
Immediately, my I?should-just-go-in-my-pyjamas self began internally crying. Formal? In this economy? What were they thinking? What even counts as “formal”? Or a “gala”? I hate this.
My friend — bless her heart — tried to quell my tiny freak?out and reassured me it would be fine. But I don’t quite know how to explain to her that with my autistic traits flaring at certain fabrics, my ongoing battle with overtly feminine clothing, and my beautiful yet challenging curves, actually finding something that fits me is… very nearly impossible.
I have many friends who adore shopping for clothes, and I’ve always thought that if it didn’t make me feel like I don’t fit in even more than usual, maybe I could enjoy it too. Alas.
