Confessions of a shopaphobic: Is there a greater hell than buying new clothes?

I am completely unable to purchase decent clothing. Something happens to me in the change room. I lose all judgment. I lose all intelligence. I’m so keen to end the agony, I’ll do anything. Even if it means buying the grey velour track pants that end well above my ankles.

“Just let me out of here!” is the song in my skull as I hand over my credit card and have all manner of inappropriate, ill-fitting crud loaded into a bag by the smiling young shop assistant.

Of course, half an hour later, I’ll be home, showing Jocasta my idiotic purchases. They will include a pair of pants two sizes too small. Or, perhaps, a pair of pants two sizes too large. I favour neither error. I make one mistake, then its opposite, every second time.

There will also be T-shirts in light pastels, such as yellow and pale green, despite the certain knowledge that these will amplify my already impressive girth. A shirt with fluorescent horizontal stripes will often, mysteriously, have made its way into my selection.

Jocasta is too kind to say the horizontal stripes make me look fat. She is worried, though, it may increase the incidence of migraine in the general population.

“Why didn’t you just buy black T-shirts and pants that fit?” Jocasta asks, as she throws down a couple of pre-emptive headache pills.

It’s a good question. I blame the design of the change rooms. If they want people like me to buy clothes, why do they equip them with mirrors? Actually, they usually include two mirrors. There’s one at the front so you can be appalled by your own declining appearance, and then another positioned at your rear should you wish for a further assault on your self-esteem.

Why don’t they just tell the truth and introduce a label called ‘He’s Let Himself Go’? I’d buy it.

Some people recommend Buddhism as a means of dissolving the ego, but I find the same result can be achieved in 10 minutes visiting Just Jeans.

Then there’s the unforgiving lighting. These days, people can choose their light globes according to the tone they wish to achieve. “Warm”, “bright” or, in this case, “forensics laboratory”. If Australia wants to reduce its greenhouse gases, could we start by turning down the lights in the nation’s change rooms?

I also object to the labels on the shirts, displaying euphemisms such as “Classic Fit” and “Relaxed Fit”. Why don’t they just tell the truth and introduce a label called “He’s Let Himself Go”? I’d buy it. As it is, I try on each shirt only to find myself overcome with a wave of sympathy for the buttons, faced with a task that is surely beyond them.

It’s no wonder I wish to escape the shop. I feel panicky and itchy. I find myself thinking, “Was it a mistake when human beings started wearing clothes?” Shouldn’t we have just stuck with the penis gourd? For the first time in my life, I’m one step off turning into a German nudist.

Of course, this feeling of insecurity is what the shopkeeper wishes to encourage. The mirrors are there on purpose. As are the eye-burning lights. Plus the slightly judgmental young, male sales assistant. He is thinner, more charming and more good-looking than seems strictly necessary.

It’s a plot. If I felt good about myself, I’d be able to leave this shop and test the wares of three or four alternative retailers. I could even end up with something that suits me. But no, they have me where they want me. The only means of escape, for my thoroughly defeated self, is via this cash register.

The sales assistant views me in the two-sizes too large pants. “I think they suit you,” he lies.

Later, at home, Jocasta considers the pants, which remain two sizes too large. “Maybe if you wash them, but in really hot water,” she offers helpfully. She has a second look at the shirt with the horizontal stripes and takes another tablet.

Some readers, I know, will be asking: “Jocasta seems like a nice person. Why don’t you take her shopping so she can help you?”

To which I say: “So, exactly when was your divorce?”

These travails are not for sharing. Jocasta doesn’t need to see this stuff.

She doesn’t need to see, first-hand, how the sales assistant had me subjugated, dancing from one foot to the other, praying for his approval. She doesn’t need to see me in the change room, slump-shouldered and doe-eyed, viewing myself in the mirror and questioning my love of potatoes. (“Maybe you should only have them every second night?” ) And, certainly, she doesn’t need to see me trying on the shirt with the fluorescent stripes as I mumble optimistically: “You know what? I don’t look too bad…”

Some men, I know, are criticised by their partners for hanging on to a single, moth-eaten jacket for decade after decade. They are criticised for wearing shirts that have actual holes in them. They face the world’s judgment for wearing a sweater with permanent stains.

Sure, they look like grubs, but look at it from their point of view: it has to be better than going shopping.

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