The Finite

I kind of went on a shopping spree at the end of P3 year. All the way from Goodwill to Target. Actually just those two places. Spent like, a hundred dollars. And picked up like fifteen pounds of business casual.

You see, I never actually bought a shirt before. Like, by myself. So this was quite the big-boy activity for me. Up til then, all my shirts were hand-me-downs from my uncle (15½, 33/34). You may have noticed me wearing one of those excessively baggy dark blue shirts on lab days at Purdue.

So after willingly setting foot in a fitting room, I finally found out what shirt size I am. (14½ 32/33 on low humidity days and barring large meals.)

I also came to a startling revelation about what t-shirts I’d been wearing. With all the free t-shirts in high school and at Purdue, I equivocated between an adult medium and large t-shirts. Why? Because the shirts I got from Mom were medium and larges. They were hand-me-downs (probably from the very same uncles.) and I never questioned why my t-shirts didn’t fit me. So when it came time for me to choose my own size of t-shirt (yay, Robotics team) I went with large because that’s what I had become accustomed to. Despite how baggy they were. I never knew that they weren’t supposed to be that baggy so I just accepted it. And then I attend a big ten university for a couple of years, and came to the shocking realization a year ago that I’m an adult small.

Now the pants were a different story which was almost entirely the same. I had been wearing 32/33 everything for a while. Then through the magic of fried food, high fructose corn syrup and puberty, I lost all of my freshman-year-dining-courts weight. No, really, my diet consisted solely of BLTs, chocolate milk, and cereal and all I did besides my internship was play Fallout 3. Ended up dropping to a perfect 30×30 (barring humidity and large meals). Not “skinny jeans skinny” (NEVER!) but a better-looking cut for sure.

It’s also kind of annoyingly metaphorical. (I know! Enough with the symbolism, right?) that back during this time in pharmacy school when I was so misanthropic toward pharmacy people. I didn’t even fit in my own clothes, much less my burgeoning profession. And it wasn’t until I found my own self-worth and abandoned cynicism that things turned around and I literally began to “fit”.

I’m beginning to think I have a problem with literary motifs.

You would think that after such a joyous event, I would stop fibbing to my mom.

Nope.

During the reception, my mom saw all the various Asian girls at Purdue, she would ask me why I didn’t date any of them. Rather then tell her the real reasons I was prepared to give one of the below, fictitious excuses which I knew would mollify her.

• She’s married with a kid, mom.
• She has a higher GPA than me.
• She prefers the new Star Wars Trilogy.
• She only goes for half-Asian guys.
• She is 1 centimeter taller than me.
• She is actually 38 but looks 24 because, well, being Asian.
• She told me she can’t cook rice without burning it.
• She wants to have a stay-at-home husband.
• That’s Professor Chen.
• She has a mole. No, like a pet mole. Yeah, really.
• She outdrinks me.
• She’s… crazy. Just straight-up crazy.
• Korean mafia ties. No, thank you. I do not want to be made into kim chee

Should I have told her the real reason? Racism, lack of social grace, lack of interest?