I would dropkick a child for a Dr Pepper cherry shirt

Product Description

I joined up with I would dropkick a child for a Dr Pepper cherry shirt the charmingly named Runner Beans Club (RBC) – named for the founders’ desire to end their run with a coffee – but I could just as easily have met with Run Happy in Sheffield, Glasgow’s Croissant Run Club, Freelancers Running Club in Leeds or the Left Handed Giant Run Club in Bristol. “It’s really hard to find community in London,” says Lydia Douglas, 28, co-founder of RBC, who only started running seriously in lockdown, and likes that it’s a way for people to meet and hang out that doesn’t involve alcohol. Douglas and her partner Joel Sanders established RBC 18 months ago, joining the likes of Your Friendly Runners (Hackney), Mafia Moves (Tottenham) and Scrambled Legs (Battersea) in the capital. This relaxed, convivial alternative to traditional running clubs, which are focused on formal training and competition, has been around for a while, says Ben Hobson, multi-platform director at Runner’s World UK, who traces it back to London’s Run Dem Crew, which was founded in 2007. “The running was part of it but it was more about bringing people together,” he says. But the concept has boomed since the pandemic – expect positive vibes, group photos, and a shared love of cafe culture.

I would dropkick a child for a Dr Pepper cherry shirt, hoodie, sweater, longsleeve and ladies t-shirt

Unisex shirt

Women’s shirt

Longsleeve shirt

Sweater

Hoodie

In the I would dropkick a child for a Dr Pepper cherry shirt Shein EZWear collection, I find a super-short plunging V-neck dress split vertically from the waist to the hem with ruching. Long straps crisscross in a double X on the open back and cinch the waist in the front. The fabric looks like cotton jersey; it’s 91% polyester and 9% elastane (100% plastic). There are five colours available: black and brown – which are both, apparently, “HOT” – bright pink, royal blue and emerald green. The model is Photoshopped into Jessica Rabbit proportions, with a tiny waist, wide hips and enormous breasts, her collarbones jutting out several inches. She is tan and hairless, and she is headless. She poses in front of a bedroom set, crumpled white sheets, ivory macrame pillowcases, and drawings of flowers framed in gold. We see her as she sees herself in the mirror, angled to get a look at her whole outfit. She wears white sneakers, a miniature pink handbag and a gold necklace with a tiny red cherry charm. Below, under “customers also viewed”, a sea of identical headless models in black dresses reads like a Captcha image. Ibegan to fall in love with clothes in 2005, when I was eight. I wanted to wear bright colours and bold patterns that could make people smile or be drawn to my otherwise shy self. I was learning, rapidly, that clothing could do the work of personality. I went shopping with my mom at stores such as the Gap and Banana Republic, but their offerings were stoic and muted. Zara, which opened its first LA store that year, was different: its enormous glass windows were full of trendy, fun pieces and teenage looks I dreamed of wearing. When the Swedish brand H&M opened its first LA store the next year, I was primed for it. Here were the brilliant Zara clothes at child-allowance prices. I could take a $20 bill and come back from the mall beaming with a new outfit. I never thought about why the clothes were so cheap. I just loved that they could be mine.