perfect pants…


  1. I hate shopping.
  2. I hate shopping.
  3. I greatly prefer sipping coffee to shopping.
  4. I never think “this would be a great day to try on pants!”
  5. My bestie is a crazy shopoholic.

Given the above facts one would think it unlikely I would spend my day off shopping, but item five sometimes outweighs items one through four. And after a quiet breakfast, some coffee, and a small serving of chocolate pudding we somehow wound up shopping. You see the breakfast joint we went to was conveniently located next to a shop full of fabulous eyeglasses. She’d been there so many times they knew her by name but she’d yet to make the crucial choice. So many glasses. So few decisions. Since it was right next to the restaurant we absolutely had to pop in. 17 hours and about 50 frames later we emerged victorious.

But it was still early. I had the day off. She had my attention. And I wasn’t hungry. And I was fully caffeinated. So it was off to a consignment store she frequents to look at… well I’m not sure what we were there to look at. A blue scarf? Some shoes? Perhaps a pair of neon pink sunglasses big enough to engulf the faces of a small island nation? We looked, we perused, we waded through rack upon rack of clothes. Panic set it. Calm panic, but panic none the less. I had an armful of clothing and was faced with the horror of trying it on. I was about to throw it on a rack and bolt when something caught me eye.


It was like that scene in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. After making it through a room full of tricks and traps our fearless heroine spies the golden idol, or in my case the dark wash jeans. Ignoring the skulls and skeletons (it’s nearly Halloween… there were plenty I assure you) and the bits of cloth, tiptoeing up to the coveted item. I pushed the hangers to either side freeing up space to turn the pants so I could examine them without freeing them from the rack. I had no idea what danger might lurk there. What could happen if I pulled them off. The ceiling could come crashing down. Or I could put them on and feel super frumpy. They might be too tight on my thighs. Or they might fit really well in the hips and ass but be way too big at the waist. Or just maybe a giant ball of second-hand clothing could come rolling down crushing everything in sight. At least 3 of those 5 things have happened to me in recent history.

I carefully removed them from the rack and escorted them to the dressing room hiding them amidst a pile of black and white tops and dresses. I dare not hope for a fit, I couldn’t get too excited. There were dresses here which would look great. And some tops that might be workable. But the jeans, they were too much to hope for so I didn’t.

But once I closed the door to the tiny room and slid the bolt into place all pretense was gone. I unbuckled my belt with haste, shoved down my jeans while kicking off my boots. I stumbled, clumsy and impatient. I stepped out of my own ill-fitting jeans as I unclipped the new unknown exciting jeans from a hanger, unbuttoned, pulled down the zipper slowly noting that it was lengthy… that means the rise wouldn’t be too low. I got excited for a moment and then caught myself.

Don’t hope. Don’t dare to dream.

I slipped into them, right foot first then left and guided them slowly up over my hips with no pull, then my ass with just a tug. I took a deep breath waiting for something to go wrong. It was all going right. Too right. I paused waiting for the inevitable pants failure and glanced down to the floor where the legs were gently pooling. In my bare feet that was to be expected. One final pull on the zipper and tuck of the button and they were on.

I did what one normally does when trying on jeans, I turned around immediately to stare at my ass. Fantastic.

Then checked the waist. No gaping.

And the thighs? No stretching.

OMFGHOLYCOWWTF these jeans fit me. And they look good.

I sucked in a shallow breath of air. Exhaled more than I inhaled. Gently lifted the tag pinned to the front pocket.

$8. Eight. Fucking. Dollars. For jeans that don’t appear to have been worn by anyone. Ever.

Remind me again why anyone pays retail? Eight dollars for the perfect jeans? Seems right to me.

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