hell is an aritzia fitting room
the fitting room as a humiliation ritual
Admittedly, I am a basic bitch. There is little I won’t do for an overpriced, perfect white t-shirt or tailored trouser. My credit card hates to see a faux leather trench coat with a $490 price tag coming. Those $48 pack of cashmere socks? I’ll take three. Lazy and boring, perhaps. Wasteful and unnecessarily costly, sure. I’m just not one for trends or prints or bold colors. Earth tones with a healthy, constant rotation of black just work for me. Which is how I ended up ruining an otherwise lovely spring afternoon by walking into Dante’s fourth circle of hell- a place where body dysmorphia is always in bloom- an Aritzia fitting room.
If you are blissfully unfamiliar with Aritzia and their fuck ass fitting rooms, let me break down the communal mirrored horrors for you. The Canadian chain, which is every poor Shiv Roy’s wet dream, has a no private mirrors policy in their Pinterest board-inspired fitting rooms. Instead of giving women privacy, they want us, already in fight or flight mode from battling five “clean girl” sales associates armed with Russian manicures and sleek buns, to parade out of the changing room into a communal mirrored area. A communal mirrored area. Just like when you were 9 and had to walk out to show mom your Oshkosh B’gosh skirt in a sticky JCPennys stall. God forbid, at our ripe age, a woman can be trusted to decide on anything for herself.
The in-store Aritzia shopping experience seems to pride itself on making every purchase a group effort. A team sport. A town hall meeting where the 19 year old elbowing you for mirror space and someone’s grandpa ogling you from the couch all get a vote equal to yours. Allowing you the space to tune into your own opinion is a luxury this retailer cannot afford. On the contrary, by forcing you into a fashion show literally no one asked for, they’re banking on muddling your judgment by ensuring you to listen to theirs.
What woman could think clearly, with Jessica yanking the fitting room curtain open every two minutes, wide-eyed and foaming at the mouth, demanding to know “how are we liking the jeans!?” while she already had the next size up on stand-by. Maybe she meant well, but the aggressive sales tactics and abrasive tone didn’t give me the impression that she did. I respect the hustle Jess, but store engagement works best when it feels authentic and not like a monotonous cash grab. Also, how did you know I’d need a bigger size, you wench?
I know I am a little older, a bit shorter, and a lot tittier than the target Aritzia customer. All of that is not lost on me.
Still, I opted to give them and their jeans a chance. I armed myself with not one but five pairs. Surely one- please denim gods, just fucking one- had to fit.
I wrangled my way through the sea of various washed blues. Took the degrading walk of shame to the communal mirror. Patiently waited for the gaggle of girls ahead of me to disperse so I could have a moment to myself. But the damage had been done. I could no longer hear my own voice over everyone else’s. The fitting room attendant told me it all looked “soooo good!” while my sister texted back that it absolutely did not. Thirty miserable minutes later, everything started to look the same. Everything started to make me feel less like myself. Everything started to make me feel ugly.
Of course, I left the store defeated. Unworthy of a new pair of jeans. Like a woman still incapable of making a choice on my own, looking in the communal mirror for validation. Like I’d let the grown-up, healed version of myself down. The part of myself that swore she’d never go on a fat free cottage cheese diet ever again. Worse yet, a part of me felt like I had let Jessica, that lying bitch, down too.
Will I shop at Aritzia again? Absolutely. Online. Where I can try on overpriced basic layering pieces and oversized blazers in the privacy of my home. And forget to return the items that don’t fit. Like an adult.
The text response: “No.” 🤣🤣🤣
It’s like prison Gen Pop but for competing females. What a horrible place.
Aritzia looks like it’s just another place for people that look like they need a sandwich.
Good piece regardless. Takes balls to split your inner dialogue wide open like this.