Clothes shopping in person demands incentive or at the very least motivation. Ordering online requires less effort, and therefor no tranquilizer darts or heavy sedatives are necessary. Unfortunately it has the unfortunate side effect of routine trips to the post office to return ill-fitting garments and wait for replacements.

Physically entering shops, shuffling through racks of fabric I can’t visualize on my body, and actually trying on clothes is no more desirable than being chained to a waiting room chair next to a woman with a plastic bucket at her feet in a doctor’s office during flu season. I can be enticed into clothes shopping, but it typically involves a carefully honed strategy consisting of a pitcher of margaritas, and a messenger continually leaving clothes, before I can redress and escape to a mexican restaurant.

My husband seems to have mastered this strategy well. Although if you prompted him, he would probably respond this is not an issue of skill or strategy, but one of self-preservation. My utilitarian approach to clothing does not advance his masculine desire to go out on the town with arm candy in tow. I never have understood why hiking boots and cargo shorts or less sexy than spiked heels and a sun dress, but we all tend develop ideas of such things based on romanticism and practicality. Since functionality falls in step with pragmatism it’s no mystery that I am in the lower tenth percentile of the fashion inept. The end result of this philosophy means I am always dressed appropriately to change a flat tire, should the need arise. Again.

My most recent foray into clothes shopping was fueled by pragmatism, but of a different sort. I am currently backed into corner, by my own undoing. I may or may not need to attend a wedding next month, in which I may or may not need to appear somewhat presentable. By presentable, I mean not showing up in a frock that was fashionable when Madonna was smacking her chewing gum and sporting a pair of fingerless lace gloves.

I’d rather have a dress I don’t need than be forced to settle for a dress I don’t even like because I waited until the last possible minute to find one. This isn’t like my father-in-law’s funeral, when the better half and I were late because we had to make a last minute tie purchase at the low price leader because we left home without one.

So the over-prepared lobe of my brain kicked and insisted upon looking for a dress, and my partner was completely on board, though he was unaware of the purpose for the scavenger hunt in the first place. I think it was the role play that appealed most, the idea of my standing behind a thin curtain taking clothing off and putting clothing on, but mainly taking clothing off.

Most men, don’t have the patience, interest, much less the stamina required to shop with women, now that I think about it, I don’t either, but my partner seems to enjoy it. Then again maybe enjoyment doesn’t factor, maybe his attention span is better suited this kind of tediousness than mine. Granted he’s more obsessed with personal appearance than I am. I don’t mean in that vain, smile at myself as a pass a mirror way, but in that I don’t like the way the flaps on my cargo short pockets won’t stay neatly pressed, or the passive aggressive way he hoards all the nice hangers so none of his polo shirts develop shoulder nipples. All in all he’s the perfect chaperone to make sure I exit the store with a dress that actually fits, although he isn’t the most objective about helping me find a dress that doesn’t make me look like a prostitute or a teenager. Being completely unbiased can only take person so far, sooner or later we can’t help but develop our own agendas.

After three hours, three stores, and thirty-three wardrobe changes, we settled on three. I only wanted the one, only needed the one, but he was so damn pleased that I tried on more than one, he wanted all of them. Just what I need, more choices, and more pressure to dress in a non-utilitarian fashion, but choices are better than ultimatums. Besides If he’s escorting me, he should at least change the damn tire.

First Boyfriend: Darin. From kindergarten to second grade we were quite an item. Apparently, he found my bowl cut to be quite sexy, but what does a five year old really know?

First Pet: Tigger. A very unattractive female calico. She was a stray who arrived with “baggage”. After the second litter of kittens, she was taken to the shelter. Ironic, my mother became a family planning nurse years later.

First Wheels: Fifteen year old go cart. Originally my brother’s, then sister’s, then mine. By the time it reached me it had a new bottom welded on, fifth or maybe sixth clutch. After me, it had a new axle. After I got my license, I had a VW Beetle.

First Kiss: See First boyfriend above.

First Alcohol: I don’t remember how old I was, but I’m pretty sure my sister was the supplier.

First Experience with Harassment: Age sixteen. First real part-time job. Sadly not the only occurrence on my resumé .

First Concert: Chicago, 1984.

First Date: Seventeen. I don’t actually remember his name. It was a fix-up and he was a nice guy, just not my type.

FIrst Cassette: Cyndi Lauper, She’s So Unusual. At least the first purchase with my allowance.

First Job: I tended horses, and did odd chores for neighbor when I was fourteen.

First Trip to the Emergency Room: I was three or four and broke out in a rash after a Mr Bubble Bath. My grandmother freaked and took me to the hospital. I haven’t been back since, due to my own stupidity. Super glue and painter’s tape solve numerous problems.

First Time I Felt Like an Adult Took Me Seriously: I was maybe 23, and my former high school art teacher confided in about her husbands affair. It felt heavy.

First Time I Felt Apart of Something Larger than Myself: Six week study abroad program in my final year of college. Sixty people I didn’t know, a culture barrier, and copious amounts of alcohol can do wonders for a person’s self esteem.

First Time I knew I wasn’t Like Others: Twenty years ago when my brother pulled me aside the week before his wedding and “coached” me in the art of dressing more conservatively, wearing make-up, and blending in with the mainstream, so I could hang out with the cool kids. To each their own.

First Wreck: Sixteen. I put my mother’s station wagon in a ditch on a dirt road. Minor damage to the car. No damage to me. My rescuers were to inebriated roofers. Nice.

First Airplane Ride Atlanta to Davenport, Iowa to see my nephew.

First Pair of Come Fuck Me Shoes: Yeah, like I could walk in those…

First Time I Swore in front of my Mother: Age four or five. I didn’t really understand what I said, I was mostly repeating what I had heard from my older siblings. I said something about not wanting to clean my damn room.

First Trip West: SanDiego. My husband and I had been dating for six months. It might seem ordinary, but at the time it opened up a new world of traveling the world. I still enjoy CA.

First Time I Felt like a Grown Up: Still waiting.