Man pants

For the record, I hate shopping…for myself. I do however, love to dress my family. I’m not sure my husband has bought a single piece of clothing in the last 10 years. I’m not sure I’d trust him if he attempted to. The last thing he bought for himself were some acid washed, tapered legged, black jeans. And, no…it wasn’t in the ‘80s…it was in this millennium. And yes, I do have photos! I digress.

Shopping for my family is easy. The husband’s size is determined by a measurement. I can walk into any store, pick up any pair of 34x36 (if I can ever find those) pants, pay and know they will fit. The waist may fluctuate an inch dependent on how many cookies I’ve baked recently, but his legs are as long as his legs always are. And kids are fantastic…give or take, their size is their age. Fabulous!

Me, on the other hand…I go into a panic attack just thinking about the purchase of a new pair of jeans. It usually plays out like this:

Tiny girl of age 18 and size 00 (incidentally, WTF is a size 00 – is that just a cruel way to make the size 0 girls feel fat?) accosts/greets me not even within 2 feet of the entrance. “Can I help you find anything?” I immediately punch her, snatch her bald-headed and run for the closest exit. Wait, no…that’s what I want to do. Instead, I sigh and bite the bullet. “Sure, sweet cheeks…you can help me find a pair of casual jeans that disguise the size of my ass, hide my ‘Mommy-junk’ commonly referred to as Muffin Top, will not scare my children with plumber’s crack, have not been bedazzled and are actually made of Denim and not 100% Lycra – it’s not a good look for me.”

She studies her manicure. “Hmmm. What size are you?” “In store A, I wear a 14, in store B I take a 16 in store C – whom are my favorite, but too far to drive, I’m a 12. In store D, I’m a 33 and lastly in store E, I’m a L. I have no idea what any of that means, or why I just had to be humiliated enough to state out loud.” Rolling her eyes, she puts me in a fitting room.

Over the course of the next 30 minutes, I try on about 15 pair of pants…and none fit. Too tight here, too big there. Most are not long enough, although strangely, I’m not considered tall. One pair, I’m certain were beamed here from another planet. One pair would be appropriate if I were to pick up a night gig as a street walker...even then I doubt I’d be paid much – except to go away. And I’m certain that one pair was thrown in b/c that tiny girl was filled with malice & spite.

Heartbroken and self-esteem in shreds, I leave the store, sans jeans. I do what any respectable woman does at this point. I go shopping for shoes. I come home with an expensive pair of stilettos, b/c HEY! They look great with these sweat pants…who needs jeans anyways?