I’m a perfect 10. Unless I’m a 12. Okay, sometimes I’m an 8. Yes, I’m talking about pants sizes. I do waver five or ten pounds here or there, but mostly it’s the manufacturers’ sizes that are questionable.
I’ve been known to buy a 14 (I'm tall), and only because I know the pants will shrink in about two seconds and I don’t want to be one of Those Girls. You know the ones: the ones that are wearing pants-way-too-tight that you wonder, “Huh, what saleslady told you those look good? because, you know, she lied.”
I was down to three pairs of pants (if the inventory of my pants is not exciting to you, as it is to say me or perhaps my cat, then maybe you should just skip today’s blog and re-read yesterday’s instead): I owned one pair of khakis, a pair of jeans, and a pair of plain black pants. (This is due to the untimely and much ballyhooed death of my other Beloved Jeans, the ones that fit exactly right, and the ones that ultimately had a tear in the back pocket that the Cruel And Possibly Possessed Dryer somehow parlayed into a giant rip. Sigh.)
I know this seems like a reasonable amount of clothing (as I can mix and match with various tops and sweaters), but if one of those pairs was in the wash (see horror story above), things did not bode well. I told The Husband I was going shopping.
You know what happens next: crying in the Macy’s dressing room. However, in this case the only crying was tears of joy because not only did I find some new pants that fit nicely, I also lucked in to a One-Day-Sale.
The trick, I have learned, is to ignore the size on the tag. Instead, grab the size “range” that you think might be appropriate (in my case: 10, 12, 14). Some designers are kind to my post-two-children body and their size 10 goes on easily and flatteringly (you know who you are, Ralph Lauren Polo). Others, uh, not so much. I hold a pair of pants up, squint, and hope for the best.
Happy with the results this time, I wore my new pants today. The Husband noticed a neat little sticker (that I thought I had thrown in the trash) adhered to my behind and said, “Hon? Why does this sticker say ‘12’? I thought you were, you know, a size 6? Did you know that the tag is wrong?”
I give him a big hug and a kiss. Today was our anniversary, and after over a decade together, he’s finally learned the right thing to say.
("Marni Or Versace")