For the record, the H did take me dress-shopping last night. I really thought we'd hit pay dirt at H&M, but the only dresses we liked even a little bit were maternity.
There is a very limited selection of stores in the Plymouth Meeting Mall, so we actually walked into Wet Seal for a hot minute, before I turned around and headed straight for the door:
"Let's get outta here," I said, bristling. "I'm a 30 year-old woman for God's sake."
(So I'm not quite 30. But 29 is a fake age. No one cares that you are 29. You're so old now that people just round up. You're 30. Just wait.)
(And you are definitely ten years too old for Pac Sun, Wet Seal, and Mandee's. In case you were wondering.)
(You are also thirty years too young for the "Charter Club" at Macy's.)
(I really should develop a reasonably-priced boutique called "Almost 30". A slightly more mature Forever 21, for the hip, sexy young woman who cannot now nor ever pull off a denim mini for the love of Pete.)
(*And that's our tag line.)
Alas, I didn't find a dress. They were all too cheap looking, too long, or trying too hard. I love me a nice pattern, but come on. Your patterns are ugly, dresses. Fire your designers and buyers and start over. I don't want to look like a I'm wearing a giant wall-hanging tapestry.