For some strange, inexplicable reason, I decide to sort out
my pants collection. Okay, it's not such
a strange reason. Every morning when I
get dressed for work, I realize I can't fit into anything. Here's the troubling part -- I haven't gained
a pound. I have weighed exactly the same
for a few years now, but all of a sudden, my clothes don't fit. I blame gravity. My friend blames cheap Chinese fabric that
shrinks every time it is washed. (I
think she's on to something.)
I start sorting into piles.
The first pile is the stuff that still fits. I am surprised to find not one but two pairs
of jeans I didn't know still fit me.
It's like Christmas morning -- Yippeee!!! Butt not so big! Woohooo!
The second pile is stuff that I swear has shrunk because
these pants fit fine in the fall -- when I weighed and looked exactly the
same. Maybe with the loss of a pound or
two or five, I can fit back into this stuff again. I just cannot wash these pants ever
again. Never.
The third pile is for the stuff that fit last year, but for
some reason doesn't fit this year. Some
of these pants are the exact same sizes and styles of pants that still do fit
and are in pile number one. Go
figure. I am more convinced than ever
that my friend is correct; it is the fabric not my body that is defective. This pile would require a five to ten pound
weight loss, and I am just crazy enough to hold on to this stuff (in the back
of a small closet, hidden away and out of sight), in case I get sick and drop
body mass. This is not such a
far-fetched idea with my penchant for pneumonia, though it rarely sneaks up on
me anymore. I'm learning to outsmart it
before I get to the rapid weight loss stage.
But, just in case, I have pants.
Pile number four is actually a trash bag. This is my WTFDTSEFOMBA pile: When The Fuck Did This Shit Ever Fit Over My
Bulbous Ass. I call it my WTF
Ditsefomba pile. The WTF Ditsefomba pile
will go directly out the door. I don't
ever want to see it again. I was never
this size, at least not since I was thirteen, and I have no idea how those
clothes ever made it through any kind of wearable cycles. The WTF Ditsefomba pile is the one that
proves, beyond any shadow of any doubt that cheap fabric is to blame for the
demise of Western Civilization as we know it.
I did go shopping on Friday.
I tried on eight pairs of pants and came home with two pairs. I will also tell you that the pants are
different sizes. That's right, you
bastard manufacturers, try and figure out ONE size system that will actually be
universal, could you? And I will also
admit that I hate to buy women's jeans because they're all made to look like we
live in Mexico. Everything has jagged
stitching and giant rhinestones attached to the too-small back pockets. Look, if I want to attract more attention to
my booty, I'll wear a neon light between my ass cheeks.
I'm starting to think it's time to take up sewing
again. At least the patterns run true to
the charts (though the actual sizes make my eyes bulge), and the fabric can be pre-shrunk
in the washing machine. Either way, I
have at least four pairs of pants in my work clothing rotation now. At least until I do the laundry again. Once that fabric shrinks up, all bets are
off, and the new stuff become WTF Ditsefomba.
You and my scale are my witnesses.
I'm counting on you.
