The Big White Pants

I was out running errands the other day when the zipper of my pants burst open. The cause of the explosion is unknown. I just looked down and saw that the front of my pants suddenly held a surprised expression. At the time of the burst, I happened to have popped into a Levi's store, so it seemed a simple fix to just buy a pair of jeans. I trailed the perimeter of the store leaving my hips parallel to the wall. This was no subtle wardrobe malfunction. I had to keep something in front of me or else people would surely try to tell me that my zipper was open. 

The store clerk came over. "Can I help you find anything?" she asked.
I turned my head but kept my body facing the wall. "Oh I'm just looking, thanks!"

When no one was around I'd dart to a display and rummage for my size. The trouble with my size, as any human can explain about theirs, is that the combination of long legs and wide hips really alludes most clothing designers. These features go together like popsicles and peanut butter. If they fit in the hips, they're too short. If they are long enough, I can't button 'em. Levi's, however, offers pants with different inseams (hooray!) but do you think they had my hip size with my leg length in stock on this day? No! Not a one! "Hmm... I don't think we carry many of those," the clerk told me when I asked for my freakish numerical ratio.

And the trouble with Levi's, as any unemployed person can explain, is that they cost too much to buy a pair that doesn't fit right. I really thought about it. I considered purchasing a pair that fit in the hip, were loose in the leg, and only went down to my ankles. But the good thing about aging is that you become too stubborn to do things that don't tick all the boxes. I was not concerned enough about walking around with my pants gaping open to just spend money frivolously. 

I left the store holding my backpack in front of my crotch as though I'd wet myself. I struggled to suppress my laughter as I decided what to do. I still had errands to run and I was 45 minutes from home. I elected to run into an H&M, where clothes are cheap n' trendy, and just buy a pair of shorts and be done with it. To make a long story short, it seems H&M has leaned drastically in the trendy direction this season which is unfortunately showing a collection of neon colors, parachute pants, and ill-fitting office wear. I kid you not, I searched the whole store, with an especially open mind given the circumstances, and I couldn't find a single thing in there that I would wear out in public. Remember the Spice Girls? I wasn't into their clothes then and I'm too old to pull it off now. I grabbed a pair of jean shorts and some white jeans and went into the dressing room.

Sure, the shorts fit but I have so many pairs of shorts. I don't want more. I don't need more. And why would it cost $30 for shorts this short? It's not like they used up much material. That takes us to the white jeans. They didn't have my size, of course, but I don't have any white jeans. If I'm going pay for some clothes I don't want, should I not buy something I don't have, on the off chance I might wear it someday? I jumped into the baggy white pants, laughed at how frumpy they looked, but also felt very ready to just be done with my current wardrobe conundrum. I looked in the mirror and slumped over. I looked like I had three kids at home waiting for me. 

Ready to move on with my day, I decided to just buy the pants. So how do I make this work? I cuffed the bottoms and switched my belt from the pants I'd just lost in battle to the these big white ones and I liked it. I LIKED IT! "That's not so bad," I said, even though I also knew that it was. How can they be so awful and great at the same time? Fear shot through my finger tips. "This is stage one," I said out loud in the dressing room. High waisted pants, with a tapered leg, two sizes too big... this is stage one.

I wore the big white pants up to the register and handed the girl the price tag. She looked up at me. "I ripped my pants," I told her, and she was not nearly as amused as I thought she'd be. I walked out of the store in my big new mom-jeans, feeling... aged. 

I own mom-jeans and I like them. I couldn't wait to tell Brett. He'd knock some sense into me. He was not impressed with the pants but didn't find anything about my pantaloon trials to be much of a big deal. (Certainly not worth their own blog post.) 

I've made a rule that the mom-jeans are just for home use. I hope I'll stick to it. 
Wearing them out is stage two.

The Fitness Fool

Accompanied  by unrelated summer photos.

When you're married to someone hung up on bettering themself, you wind up having to do positive things for yourself that you would otherwise completely ignore, like exercising or watching informational videos on how the global economy actually works so that you can understand other things in life, etc. Brett really loves to learn and makes choices today to benefit Brett in 5 years. Can you imagine?

In any case, all of sudden upon turning 33, my thighs fell down, mostly in the back. I didn't know they had been standing at attention all this time until they stopped putting in the effort and just slouched over and lit a cigarette. I was shocked. They should have told me they needed help. Now they tremble when I walk, and then goosh out in weird places when I sit down. I don't like it. 

I have known for decades that exercise is important and that someday, probably in my 40's, it would be something I'd just have to do, like colonoscopies and getting those old person skin spots stabbed at by dermatologists. I have accepted these things. It's just that I thought I had more time. 
So, I've been making a point to run around and leap and squat and try to convince my legs there are still a few more summers of fun dresses worth sticking around for. And that's all find and dandy. For what has been my standard existence over the last few years (deep thinking in a reclined position), I get plenty of sustenance. For this new "strength training" me, I've had to start paying attention to calories and protein. I'm not a very motivated eater. I rarely eat breakfast, and lunch can range from a spoonful of peanut butter to a freshly seared poke bowl. Supper is where I really shine, but in any case, an avid exerciser needs more than that. Seeing as I don't eat my animal friends, I thought I could use a little help working out how much of which nutritional sources I need to make sure I'm getting enough to keep myself feeling up for the challenge of an active existence. I did lots of research on the matter and found a company that helps coach vegan fatties and power-lifters alike, on what's best for them. Willing to invest in myself for once, I filled out the inquiry form, hit submit, and then cracked open a tub of ice cream. Brett was thrilled with me. "You're doing what's best for yourself, LUE!" He likes to end calm sentences with an unnecessarily exuberant "LUE!" I love when he does that.

Mere minutes later I got a message on Instagram from the guy that runs the vegan fitness program and I suddenly regretted my actions. "Oh no, he wrote me back!" I exclaimed. 

"Isn't that the worst?" Brett said, "I know exactly how that feels." This was a surprising acknowledgment of humanity on his part. I see him as immune to this particular brand of malaise.

It was about 4:00 in the afternoon when the fitness guy said something like, "Hi, I see you filled out our inquiry form. Can you tell me where you heard about us?" 

I texted back that I found them on instagram and then he wanted to know what, if any, ads I had seen and how I liked the content on their page. It made me turn on him immediately. Then he asked a series of stupid questions like, "Are you ready to commit to yourself?" 

"I've made a mistake," I told Brett. We headed out for a dog walk as my phone lit up with new questions from Captain Obvious. When I reached out to a business on their website, I assumed I'd get an email response with more information; perhaps the different programs available, a run down of how they operate, maybe even a questionnaire to fill out that would let them in on my diet or fitness level or overall goal. Instead I had an awkward doofus texting me on a social media app. We walked Pippa to nearby field to throw the ball. "So what about my content made you reach out?" my phone screen asked me. 

I ignored the cringiness factor of his needy ego and explained that I'm hoping for information on nutrition levels for someone my size, etc. 

"Yeah! I totally get that!" he said in response.

"..... yep." 

"Is this how this guy runs his business?" I asked Brett, "Is he trying to be friends? I don't need a friend. I need a service!" I declared.

"Yeah, ditch that guy," Brett said. 

"Maybe he's just socially awkward. You know how lots of people have one skill that can help people, but then they start a business and don't have the other skills you need to make it fluid?"

"I guess."

"Let me try taking over for him," I said, full of self-righteous confidence.

I picked up my phone as we stuffed Pip back in the car. "So how does this work? Do you have different programs for x,y,z..." I lead the fitness man right into the information he should be giving me.

He wrote back.

"Yeah we have three different levels but we can talk more about that if we decide this is the right fit. For now, we just like to get to know our clients. Client relations are our number 1. So what do you do?"

Awe geez.

I told him I am working on my Masters and then I put my phone away. It was almost 8:00 by now. Brett and I made supper and enjoyed our evening hours the way most people would when business hours end and home hours start. My phone lit up in the corner. "Cool! What are you studying?"

I had done a lot of research on different "coaches" for what I was looking for and this one was one of the only ones for normal people. The other "plant-based" coaches I found focused on competitive body building or people looking to really pack on muscle without using animal proteins. Quite admirable, but way out of my league. I really liked the normal person nature of this company. I figured Id' give it one more try in the morning. 

I responded around 10:00 and led the clown to water again but he wouldn't drink. He wanted to know if I was working or not. I wrote back "no, just school" and then sat a moment to work out what I was going to say to break up with him. As I wrote a polite "thank you for your time but this isn't for me" kind of note, his response came in. 

"Well usually people who aren't working aren't a good fit for the program. People who aren't working aren't usually ready to commit to themselves, and of course, that also means they don't have income to invest in themselves. Does this sound like you or am I missing something."

Oh heeelllll nah! Oh you missin' e'rythang!

I told him those are unwise assumptions and then I broke up with him. He'd try to save the conversation by saying something else stupid like, "I believe everyone has a home here if they're the right fit."

Do you hear yourself, Sir?

"I noticed your tone shifted after I mentioned the financial investment. Did something offend you?" he asked.

That's when I let him have it. 

And it's not that he offended me. For all I know, I couldn't afford it, but how could you tell what with him withholding the details of his services. It's the gall and stupidity of those assumptions, mixed with having to make small-talk on an app for an indeterminate amount of time and STILL never getting any of the information you reached out for in the first place. I've had it with this clown! How is this guy in business?

He wrote back stupidly;

"Great feedback. I guess it's fair to be irked by what I said."

Satisfied that he knew he was wrong, I politely got the last word, which reconfirmed my superiority, and then I ran to find Brett.

"I did it!" I told Brett, "I broke up with him and made it clear that he's stupid."

"I'm proud of you, LUE!" he bellowed.

So you see, in the end I wound up making Brett proud without actually having to better myself.