When I go out in public, I prefer to be awkward, not look it. Trying to do both at the same time is way too much work, because I'm also extremely lazy. So, while I may accidentally look at you crosseyed when we first meet, please know that I've also taken the time to make sure my outfit, at least, matches and I've popped my collar to compliment my flats.
Whoa ....slow down, Paige. That's a lot of clothing Jargon.
Sorry, sometimes I stumble onto J. Crew's website and want to start using vocabulary like "Ruching" and "You want this because it's darted. Daaaarted."
Oh, and I love, "Pleat".
Before Husband and I headed out on our date last night, I found my post-partum self in need of pants that fit. But, with no money right after bombarding Amazon with my Christmas list, I couldn't afford to have my private tailor head over and begin designing something.
Just kidding, my tailor doesn't make house calls. But she does let me pay by check and doesn't ask how I get holes in the armpits of garments.
So, I did something I don't usually do, and had a bright idea that turned into a horrible idea. Wait, no. I do that quite a bit. But that didn't stop me from jumping in the mini van and yelling out the window, "To the thrift store. But not too fast because you just got in an accident."
It seemed plausible the thrift store had lots of pants. So many, I reasoned, there had to be at least one pair which would fit me, but be ridiculously cheap. I might have to wade through stacks of denim, but it'd be worth it to only pay five dollars to clothe a muffin top in dire need of being covered.
...actually, what I have going on around my middle would be better served by a corset and some barbed wire, but it's getting increasingly difficult to find someone brave enough to lace me up and I just know the twins hid the wire cutters again.
I was right. There were racks and racks of jeans: jean skirts, jean vests, jean Christmas sweaters proclaiming, "Jean -gle Bells!" Jaw set in determination, pea coat buttoned all the way to the top in defiance, I charged, schoolmarm- bun-first, into the fray.
But, oh ...sometimes you don't know you can't swim until you realize you don't remember ever paying for swim lessons. Before I knew it, I'd been set adrift in a sea of St. John's Bay, Sag Harbor, and a few ungodly brands I'd never heard of. I wasn't some seamstress wiz who'd be able to make any of these I Know What You Did Last Summer rejects work for me.
Soon, I was spinning in circles, shouting to no one in particular...
"Why is the crotch trying to touch the ground?"
"Can you "cuff" an entire pair of jeans?"
"In the 90's, did "wide leg" mean "Fits most circus elephants"?
"Should denim be distressed to the point it looks like human skin?"
"Why is there a driver's license in this one? Does anyone know where this person is and if they realize they're not wearing pants?"
Defeated, I waded out of Sag Harbor and back to the mini van. Too late to go anywhere else, I did what any self-respecting person would do after making it out of St. John's Bay alive, ate some chocolate and compared prices for corsets on Amazon. The wire cutters could wait until morning.
Until Next Time, Readers!