As women, we often become snagged by what size we are and want to be. We USED to be one size; but after kids and a few years of marriage, that can change (not always for the better) We develope exercise routines, better eating habbits and try to lose a number or two. It's only natural to want to be....in Tess terms: delectible. I crack me up. Well okay, I've worked at doing just that and am truly proud of the results. THEN I went shopping to reward myself and "WHAMMO!" got kicked right in the muffin top. Here's why I want to come back as a man:
When YOU go shopping for pants and shirts you are a size. It doesn't matter what went on in Italy in the spring or who strutted along that little sidewalk thingie or in what store you choose to shop. You wear 34" 30's? Go get em Tiger. There are shelves devoted to you. You want a 15 1/2" collared shirt? Well, right here it is. Make your choice and proceed to the next department. Hooray hooray~
We are not so lucky. Depending on the store, designer, your position in your delicate feminine cycle and the panties you have on, you can range from a six to a forty-two. Over the years, I have made my choices based on that number. I REFUSE to wear certain digits. I might have holes and tears but by GOD if that sucker is too high? I'll go naked by cracky. I despise having to clothes shop for this very reason. I may travel ten feet in a store and have four sizes in my hand. What's worse? The bigger size? Yeah, it may be too tight. You betcha, I might appear as if I'm trying to shop lift a Hippity Hop. Go back to the smaller size and I've got to hem and cinch. FIRETRUCK! Are you KIDDING me????
Now as for the shirt? Well, I struggle because I have peek-a-boo boobs. They enjoy hiding in my armpits until the shirt is home, tagless and buttoned. Then they slowly sneak up front and try to see the world from between that ONE button causing a lovely peep hole. I always carry safety pins. Of course I could buy a bigger shirt but the shoulders run perpendicular to my spine and half way to my elbows. Then there are the cuffs. >sigh<I just wasn't built right.
So where was I heading? Oh yes. My size. I have busted my arse to make it smaller and my daughter and I wear the same number....be reasonable folks: she's eleven. They are kids' sizes...but still the same number...hee hee. I think it's funny. This last weekend I was folding laundry and got everyone's everythings put away. I got my clothes out for the next day, ironed what I needed to and moved on.
Morning arrived and getting ready for work, I grabbed my crisp pair of black pants. It was dark and I noticed I was struggling...REALLY struggling (in places I didn't normally struggle. I mean really, my SHINS got fat overnight? Come ON!) Miffed, I threw them on the floor to punish them and grabbed a skirt. I couldn't believe I had broken a sweat trying to put on my friggin pants. I was considering the screwdriver in the zipper hole trick... but this was NOT happening. I turned the light on and stared at those naughty britches. I thought briefly of cutting them to ribbons to show them who was boss. They were an "8"...so what the....
Maddie came in laughing.
"Uhhhhh Mom? I'm gonna need some of those safety pins from one of your shirts."
Whew! Close call. I headed downstairs and had a LIGHT breakfast...just in case.
Silly, I know but I thought it was cute.
Have a good day. Thanks for stopping by.
