Great googly moogly 😮 Wellington's clothing stores seem to have an incredibly poor opinion of the physique of the average Kiwi male.

Last Saturday, my gal and I spent far too many hours picking out a gazillion theoretically rather nice-LOOKING shirts for the first day at my latest day-job. But 90% of the shirts I sampled tailor their shoulders, upper back and upper arms so tightly they squidge my upper torso to sausagey jelly.

The shirts' chest- and tummy-regions, however, are tailored so sloppily they billow in the breeze like those publicity shots a certain species of aspiring-upmarket-woman snaps of herself attempting yoga on the beach in high winds and resplendent in a ginormous flimsy sundress twenty metres broad, like she's trying to out-bridal-train Princess Di. Either that or she's luxuriating as a cosplay hypersonic spaceplane concluding its atmospheric re-entry and runway landing, and she's commanding frantic airport personnel teams to re-stow her vast feather-light silk drag 'chute back up her bum.

More power to her, says I, if that's how a gal like her cultivates her jollies, but turns out attempting similar at my new workplace is a teensy bit tricky. The Space Shuttle notoriously required a 15,000 foot runway. My latest work-closet spans barely half that. If I and/or any of these hashtag-boss-bitches should attempt such a rectal spaceplane landing through its office windows and equipped with such a ridiculous and flouncy dress shirt, even sized XXXXXXXL, for gracious yes such shirts exist, then we'd bowl over half of Wellington's skyscrapers like glassy skittles.

That honestly sounds like a hoot, but best not mix business with pleasure. So locating three rare non-bum-'chute shirts took friggin' hours. I try to stay in decent shape but would hardly call myself the Incredible Hulk, but it seems most shirt manufacturers reckon the average bloke in these parts resembles Mr. Potato Head.