Spring fashions are blossoming in all the Montreal shop windows. Everyone out on the streets is still bundled in the drab colours of winter, while on the other side of the glass mannequins romp in a riot of hot colours.

This year's look appears to be form-fitting and often semi-sheer, or as I think of it Hooker Chic. You have to be young and lithe to pull off this look. I am neither. There are no words for my bitterness.

I was in Simon�s yesterday, pouring through the racks in the off chance that there was some scrap of clothing that I could actually wear without also displaying my underwear and every centimeter of my torso not covered in underwear. This is not so much about modesty as it is about public service. Let us just say that gravity can be cruel indeed and leave it at that.

Not far from me were two women my age on the same quest.

They were an odd pairing. Woman A was pretty conservative looking, think teacher or librarian. And Woman B, um, well she was too blonde, too made up and her jeans were a size too small. She held up a skimpy semi-sheer top with a princess waist. For those of you who don�t speak fluent fashion, a princess waist is pulled in under the chestal area, accenting the chestals.

�What do you think of this?� she asked her more conservative friend.

�Well, it�s perfect if you plan on selling your ass on the street,� her friend replied.

Now the cardinal rule of eavesdropping is that you have to pretend that you are not actually eavesdropping which means that you can never, ever react to the eavesdroppee�s conversation.

But the thing is, Woman A�s assessment of the top was exactly what I was thinking, plus it was considerably cruder than the words you would expect to hear coming out of woman with such a staid exterior. The combination of the two made me half giggle, half snort. Yes, I snortled, which mean I was busted for the eavesdropping. Uh oh.

The two women stopped their conversation and turned to look at me. Uh oh.

So I did what any right thinking woman would do and grabbed the nearest article of clothing and bolted for a change room. Anything to extricate myself from that awkward situation. Said article of clothing was sheer, fitted and unforgiving. The harsh fluorescent glare of the overhead light added that extra dollop of ambience designers refer to as �autopsy room�. The full body mirror meant there was no where to run, no where to hide.

I can see why they never have sharp surfaces in these rooms. It�s to save the women in them from ending it all right there on the spot.

I have made a little deal with the universe. I have promised to never again eavesdrop if it will promise to never again force me to wear unforgiving clothing in a change room.

Anyone care to bet on which of us will break first?

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 318.94 miles. Double Duckage. My joy knows no bounds.