The incredible shrinking buttocks
Maybe the ass isn’t so big.
My current trousers are all cartoonish big. Like balloons, they bag and gap all over the place.
I hate to shop for clothing.
I mean, if I had a list of things to hate, clothes shopping would be near the top.
(Benefits of small-town life: When I was a kid, stores used to let my mother take clothing home for me to yea or nay; trust me, it was better on the both of us – and the store.)
I had to go shopping.
I decided a smash-and-grab job would be best, park near the closest entrance to Old Navy, run in, try on clothing, toss money at the 17-year-old girls who would bug me to open my own Old Navy account and save 20 percent on my purchase – no matter how many times I said no.
I ran in, selected four pair – two pair of shorts, a pair of jeans and a pair of cargos – and hit the dressing room.
Now, the last time I bought pants was a few days before I left for Italy last year. I bought two pair of those no-wrinkle, stain-resistant jobbies. They were a snug 40-inch waist.
I brought with me all size 38-inch pants into the dressing room.
None of them fit.
I mean, they hung on my hips.
Dare I try a 36-inch waist?
(I haven’t worn a 36-waisted anything since the early 90s.)
I didn’t want to ruin the really good mood I was in. Squeezing into new pants I didn’t want to be shopping for in the first place would tip that balance.
I found a pair of cargos that were on sale for $12 and plucked two pair of cargo shorts in styles I liked and walked back to the dressing room.
All were 36-inch waists.
And they all fit.
(Yes, I spent a little time waggling my ass at the mirror. Giddy, I was.)
Actually, they’re all a loose 36. I still need a belt.
And this shopping trip didn’t seem so bad.
My current trousers are all cartoonish big. Like balloons, they bag and gap all over the place.
I hate to shop for clothing.
I mean, if I had a list of things to hate, clothes shopping would be near the top.
(Benefits of small-town life: When I was a kid, stores used to let my mother take clothing home for me to yea or nay; trust me, it was better on the both of us – and the store.)
I had to go shopping.
I decided a smash-and-grab job would be best, park near the closest entrance to Old Navy, run in, try on clothing, toss money at the 17-year-old girls who would bug me to open my own Old Navy account and save 20 percent on my purchase – no matter how many times I said no.
I ran in, selected four pair – two pair of shorts, a pair of jeans and a pair of cargos – and hit the dressing room.
Now, the last time I bought pants was a few days before I left for Italy last year. I bought two pair of those no-wrinkle, stain-resistant jobbies. They were a snug 40-inch waist.
I brought with me all size 38-inch pants into the dressing room.
None of them fit.
I mean, they hung on my hips.
Dare I try a 36-inch waist?
(I haven’t worn a 36-waisted anything since the early 90s.)
I didn’t want to ruin the really good mood I was in. Squeezing into new pants I didn’t want to be shopping for in the first place would tip that balance.
I found a pair of cargos that were on sale for $12 and plucked two pair of cargo shorts in styles I liked and walked back to the dressing room.
All were 36-inch waists.
And they all fit.
(Yes, I spent a little time waggling my ass at the mirror. Giddy, I was.)
Actually, they’re all a loose 36. I still need a belt.
And this shopping trip didn’t seem so bad.
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