Apparently, I'm the Wrong Size AND the Wrong Number of People...

There comes a point in every adult’s life when you begin to suspect that the entire retail industry has been designed by people who have never actually met a human being.

Clothing stores don’t know our size. Grocery stores don’t know how many of us live in our houses. And somewhere in a corporate boardroom, a group of executives is congratulating themselves on another successful quarter while I’m standing in a dressing room wearing pants that have somehow cut off circulation to my legs.

All I wanted was a pair of jeans and enough groceries to feed one person. Apparently, that’s asking too much.

Part One: Clothing Sizes Are Being Assigned by a Drunk Magician

I have a theory... Somewhere in a secret warehouse, clothing manufacturers employ a man named Godfrey, whose sole responsibility is to assign sizes to garments. Godfrey doesn’t use measurements. Godfrey uses vibes.

He picks up a shirt, squints at it, takes a sip from a suspiciously unmarked thermos, and announces, “Medium.”

His coworker looks over. “Godfrey, that’s a bedsheet.” “Large, then.” And off it goes to retail.

Please explain to me how I can wear a medium shirt from one manufacturer, a large from another, and an extra-large from a third that apparently specializes in clothing for unusually muscular garden gnomes. There is absolutely ZERO consistency.

I recently tried on two pairs of pants that were supposedly the same size. Same brand. Same style. Same number printed on the little tag. One pair fit beautifully. The other pair made me look like I was trying to smuggle a watermelon through airport security. HOW?! Did one pair shrink during a shipping accident with a water truck? Was there a clerical error at the denim factory? Or did Godfrey come back from lunch early?

And don’t even get me started on the fitting rooms. You enter carrying six items and a reasonable amount of self-confidence. You leave twenty minutes later questioning your anatomy. The lighting is somehow simultaneously bright enough for surgery and unflattering enough to make you resemble a recently unearthed frozen neanderthal. There’s a mirror positioned at an angle that reveals portions of your body you’ve never previously encountered. Nor have seen since 1985.

You turn sideways. You suck in your stomach. You attempt a maneuver involving one knee, a coat hook, and a desperate prayer with a rosary. Nothing helps.

Meanwhile, the employee outside asks, “How’s everything fitting?” Oh, fantastic, Susan. I’ve discovered that according to this particular manufacturer, my torso belongs to a medium, my shoulders belong to an extra-large, and my thighs apparently require special permission from the Department of Transportation.

And why do sizes change depending on the clothing? A large sweatshirt could shelter a family during a hurricane. A medium dress shirt fits as if somebody painted it directly onto your rib cage. A medium jacket won’t zip unless you exhale your organs.

At this point, I think clothing should abandon traditional sizes altogether. Just put honest descriptions on the tags.

“Fits most people after Thanksgiving.”
“Suitable for individuals with unusually narrow elbows.”
“May require assistance from emergency services.”
“Designed for someone who has never eaten bread.”

At least we’d know what we’re getting into. But eventually, after exhausting every size combination known to modern civilization, you find something that fits. You pay for it. You leave. And you decide to reward yourself by stopping for groceries. Which brings us to an entirely different retail conspiracy.

Part Two: Grocery Shopping for One Is Apparently Illegal

I would like to make a formal announcement to the grocery industry.

THERE IS ONLY ONE OF ME!

One person. One mouth. One stomach. One refrigerator. I don't run a summer camp for the youth. I am not provisioning a cruise ship. I am not secretly responsible for feeding the offensive line of the Dallas Cowboys. So why does every grocery store insist on selling me enough produce to sustain a small agricultural commune?

Let’s begin with bananas. I want two bananas. Two. One for tomorrow. One for Wednesday. That’s my entire banana-related business plan. But the stores present them to me in bunches of six, all connected at the stem like they’re participating in a botanical group therapy session.

Sure, you can separate them sometimes. But somehow the bunch always looks more wholesome and reasonably priced, and you convince yourself you’ll eat all six. You won’t; you never will.

By Thursday, three have developed freckles. By Friday, they’re brown. By Saturday, they’re releasing an aroma that suggests they’re preparing to molt into a creature feature at 11 pm on HBO.

And blueberries? A whole pint. Apparently, the minimum acceptable quantity of blueberries is enough to fill a decorative fountain. You eat a handful. You put the container back in the refrigerator. Two days later, you discover that several blueberries have begun wearing tiny white sweaters. Congratulations. You are now operating a mold farm.

Strawberries are even worse. They look magnificent in the store. Bright red. Beautiful. Perfectly arranged. You bring them home feeling like someone who makes excellent nutritional decisions. Then you open the container forty-eight hours later. One strawberry has liquefied. Another is covered in fuzz. A third appears to be communicating with the others through a sophisticated fungal network.

You stare into the container. The container stares back. And somewhere in the distance, the Stranger Things theme begins playing. WELCOME TO THE UPSIDE DOWN, PRODUCE EDITION!

Don’t even mention the five-pound watermelon you bought because a container was $12 for a sliced pound. Who decided that was an appropriate amount of watermelon for one person? You cut it open, eat three slices, and suddenly half your refrigerator is occupied by a fruit the approximate dimensions of a spare tire.

You try to finish it. You really do. Watermelon for breakfast. Watermelon for lunch. Watermelon after dinner. By day three, you’re considering opening a roadside stand. By day four, you’re bargaining with neighbors.

“Hey, Frank! You like watermelon?”
“Not particularly.”
“How about a free watermelon?”
“How much?”
“FRANK, I’M BEGGING YOU.”

And lettuce! Oh, lettuce. The greatest practical joke ever played on single-person households. You buy a beautiful bag of mixed greens, fully intending to become a healthy, responsible adult. You make one salad. One. The remaining greens sit quietly in the crisper drawer, plotting their forbidden transformation. Three days later, you open the bag and discover something resembling the contents of The Swamp Thing's digestive tract. The leaves are no longer leaves. They have become a damp, translucent substance. You don’t throw the bag away, you can't. At least not until Father Edmonds comes from the township over, to perform an exorcism.

And the fruit flies! WHERE DO THEY COME FROM?! You bring home some bananas, leave them on the counter, and suddenly seventeen microscopic aircraft are conducting landing exercises over your fruit bowl. You wave them away. They return. With 60 more... You move the bananas. They follow. You dispose of the bananas. They remain. Apparently, you’ve signed a long-term lease with an insect colony.

And don’t tell me to buy frozen fruit. I know frozen fruit exists. But sometimes I want a fresh strawberry without defrosting it like a Thanksgiving turkey. Is that unreasonable? I don’t think so…

What I want is a grocery section designed specifically for people shopping for one. Two bananas. Six strawberries. A sensible handful of blueberries. A couple of lettuce leaves. Maybe one kiwi that doesn’t require a mortgage application. And a watermelon portion small enough that I don’t have to recruit three neighbors and a youth soccer team to finish it. Call it the Single Human Produce Initiative. I’d shop there every week if that was the case!

Until then, I’ll continue buying clothing that doesn’t fit and produce I can’t finish. At least the two problems have one thing in common. Apparently, the retail industry thinks I’m simultaneously too big, too small, and responsible for feeding six people. And somewhere, Godfrey is labeling a pair of jeans “Medium” while my strawberries develop consciousness.

And somewhere, in my cold sweat dreams, I can hear Roy Scheider saying, "You're going to need a bigger refrigerator."