Everyone has their share of laundry horror stories--pink everything, shrunken knits--but that's not what I'm talking about here.  This is something that happens even when you've taken all the necessary precautions: cold-water Wash, gentle cycle, light tumble in cold air, handling as if it were the shroud of Turin.  And yet.  How did those pants that subtly but effectively accentuated your behind and cascaded down your leg in a flattering flow of fabric become for all intents and purposes gynandrous capris with a mom-jean waist?  I am not one to be easily deluded by changing room carnival mirrors and purposely disorienting directional lighting, and I agonize over every single purchase with a presidential-cabinet level of deliberation, so it is infuriating to discover that your shock-and-awe wardrobe has inexplicably morphed into fashion haraam for no apparent reason.

What's really enraging is that I know the source of the problem, and yet I'm helpless to stop myself from shopping there: H&M, a place I am inexorably drawn to again and again because of the tailored-fit clothing--and yes, the prices--but which almost never fails to burn me in the long (short?) run.  Sigh.