On the list of things that I hate (including thousand island dressing and Farmville), shopping for pants is right up there. It’s probably in the top five, and if I were an organized list maker, I’d be able to tell you that for sure. But I’m an ENFJ which is like fancy mumbo-jumbo for saying that I don’t like making lists, I think.
It’s worse when I’m fatter because, obviously, who wants to go shopping for pants that look like they could be made by Olag The Tentmaker? And worse, who wants to PAY for that privilege? I know, I know, you’re supposed to just buy what fits you, but honestly, I’m a vain bitch and I don’t WANT to buy something that reads a number that makes me hyperventilate. I don’t CARE if I have to squeeze myself into it, I’ll take the smaller size, thankyouverymuch.
Or I did, until I had some babies, gained a fuckton of weight and realized that you can’t just magically make yourself squeeze back into your size 6’s without some real effort.
So, for every size that I am, I buy one or two pairs of pants and when I outgrow them–the DOWN way, I mean–I toss ’em and buy another, smaller pair.
I learned a long time ago that you should always buy pants a little snug when you’re dieting so you don’t have any room to grow, and really, who DOESN’T want to go down a size? Honestly, now. That’s pretty much cause for celebration with a nice, tall glass of water!
I’d bought myself new pants a couple of months ago, one a standard size, and the other with some what I like to call “torture panels” that are designed to suck you in in your gut and your thighs. Flattering for when you’re going out, for sure, but they were the step DOWN from the standard size.
I considered those to be a gradient from that same size. If you’re a man, you’re probably shaking your head because a 32 is a 32 is a 32 right?
Women’s sizes don’t run that way. A size 6 is NOT a size 6 is NOT a size 6 which is why our heads spin when we have to go clothes shopping if we have any problem areas. Me? I always have had a gut. I’m getting a tummy tuck when the weight is all gone, but for now, I have a gut and it makes pants shopping annoying.
So I’m in my bedroom, and I can find my Torture Pants, the size BELOW that, the pants I am currently wearing (dirty from the garden) but not the standard size I am looking for. I had seen them several weeks before, in my bedroom and now, nothing. They weren’t under my bed. They weren’t BEHIND my bed. I hadn’t been wearing them because they hadn’t fit properly before and now I was sure they WOULD fit.
Desperately I searched my bedroom. I pulled apart my closet, looking at all my skinny clothes mournfully while I diligently searched for my pants.
I grabbed a shopping bag and carefully began to sort out the maternity clothes I SHOULD have gotten rid of months ago. I sorted sheets. I found an old bottle of perfume I’d thought I’d lost. And still, NO PANTS.
I went downstairs and looked in the basement to see if they’d gotten thrown in the laundry. NO PANTS.
I checked in Ben’s room to see if somehow, he’d overlooked that he could have fit his entire body into the leg of the pants, decided they were his and put them away into his dresser. NO PANTS.
I then checked in Mimi’s room. Had someone stashed them oddly into her walk-in closet? Nope, just toys. I made a mental note to clean it out this week and wandered off, furious. Where the HELL were my PANTS?
I had worn them in my room. I had taken them OFF in my room, deciding that I’d WAIT and wear them again when I could actually BREATHE while they were on my person. That meant that unless they’d become intelligent, they couldn’t have actually LEFT the room on their own.
I quizzed the usual suspects and as is the case when I ask about the poo stains on the toilet seats, it was all deny, deny, deny.
So if matter is neither created nor destroyed, where the shit are my pants?
My conclusion to my search for the crystal ball-gag is up at Toy With Me.