Yes, yes, perfect fit, yes, yes, yes

Clothing shopping in Chennai is remarkably simple. I simply frequent any one of the numerous retail outlets within walking distance and point at the desired article of clothing—whether track pants with insignia denoting both “Structure” and “Lee” as the brand, plaid shorts made from sheet cloth, or an oddly-patterned collared shirt—and the shopkeeper says “yes, perfect size, yes yes, perfect fit, just one? Need this too (points at second nearest article of clothing) just right, perfect yes.”

Unfortunately none of what the shopkeeper says relies on my physical being specifically, unless you allow for the possibility that I could also be a 7-foot Asian basketball player or a stout Russian midget. So when he’s holding up an XXL polo shirt stating that it’s “just right for me” I’m pretty sure we’re both smiling inside at the subjectivity of things like appropriate clothing and retail protocol. And just to clarify these are not the high-end stores where people do things like try on clothing and pay fixed prices, which do abound throughout the city. These are the lazy, slightly cheap man’s stores for the local who’s more interested in the outcome of [price/(articles of clothing X effort)] than [(style X fit X quality)/price], which at some point during my 23 years on this planet has come to include me. The relevant outcome being that I’ve already made several ill-advised purchases in India that have quickly become fixed items on the bottom shelf of my closet.

[Slight aside: I decided at some point earlier this year that the method in which I clothing shop could stand as a metaphor for the overall way in which I live my life. I make a lot of slightly brash, potentially ill-suited and often unusual purchases with the result being that I end up disposing of many of the items upon allowing common sense and external input the occasion to fester, but intermittently end up with an unforeseen gem. This theory is yet to be disproved.]

Also contributing to this phenomenon following me to India is the fact that I can be a model pushover, although part of why I came to India was to resolve this issue, and I do seem to be making progress. Now I only consider items that I’ve myself pointed at not the numerous things are thrown in front of my face and I also remember to bargain down not simply accept the pushover-priced tags. Sometimes it’s hard to learn to say “no”, especially to things like drugs and relatively cheap clothing presented by amicable Indian men, but sometimes if you don’t say no you’ll end up on the wrong side of town in somebody else’s clothing. These are the kind of predicaments I face every time I step outside.