Saturday, January 18, 2014

All In The "Jeans"

Dear diary

I have officially humiliated myself at a pretty respectable branded clothing outlet. For some reason weight gain on my bottom seems directly proportional to the number of super short tops I have in my closet. Thus, the bigger the buttocks, the more the number of short tops! Sometimes its like I have Murphy as a live in partner!

The person who named the behind as "gluteus MAXIMUS" knew exactly what he was in talking about! Don't keep it in check and it gets as MAXIMUS as it possibly can!

I ask my best friend the question eternally dreaded by all best friends almost every day. "Babe, do these jeans make me look fat?" Ever since a week long fight after a particularly honest answer, the best friend has been extremely diplomatic and her answers range from "Fat? Fat? Whoever called you that?" To "I think straight cut jeans would suit you even better hon!"all the while I know she's thinking in her head "God! Somebody tell this woman the honest to goodness truth!"
The "honest-to-goodness" is the main reason why salespeople and I don't get along at all! It's like they have this mental measuring tape on and the moment I pick out something from the medium section, they waste no time in rushing forward and "helpfully" announcing "Madam! That is the medium section. The LARGE section is over there!" (Thank you obnoxiously annoying and unforgivably thin saleswoman with supersonic voice!)

So anyway diary, this particular trip was pure disaster I tell you! Of the 12 pairs of jeans I own, only 2 had even the remote ambition of reaching up and over my behind. And they were so snug, I would never have been able to bend, eat or even breathe in them. So yes, I needed to shop for a new and larger pair. I headed over to my favorite shop (by favorite I mean the shop that stocks clothes my size) and to my horror, my regular salesgirl, the one with loads of tact and patience was on leave. Instead they present me with a super skinny teen who worked there part time. She gives me a once over and throws the "large section over there" line at me (temper in major check!)
I make a brave stab at some conversation and politely ask her to help me with some jeans. "Oh we don't stock size 38...only upto 34" Oh lord! Have mercy! I would have loved to strangle her. Instead I smiled (rather looked like I had rictus) and asked her to get me a size 34.
"A 34?" (A long look given at my buttocks) erm...ok..." A pair of deep blue 34 sized jeans was shoved into my hands. The smirk on her smug face rubbed my ego the worst way and I swore i would stuff myself into the jeans in the worst way that I could.
The next 45 minutes were the worst, most claustrophobic minutes of my life. I sat, jumped, lay on the floor and almost screamed in anger trying to fit myself into the jeans. I'm sure to have developed my biceps trying to put the button. I held my breath for so long, sucking my tummy in, I would have made the world's greater deep sea diver proud!
You can't even imagine how I managed to totter out of the changing room diary! It was a nightmare! The jeans were so tight, I could not stand up straight! The salesgirl turned purple from trying to suppress her laughter!
"Perfect fit madam!" She happily sang!
I got so mad I actually let out my breath and my button popped! It flew across the room and smacked the manager right on his face! Everyone stood gob smacked for a long time.

Obviously there was only one thing to do. I sighed (heard the zip go down) and announced with the tiniest bit of dignity I had left "I'll pay cash."

Note to self: check for a clothing store at least an hour away from the scene of the crime.

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