Pants, Danced Off

I have been actively losing weight for a little bit now, which is fabulous for a gazillion reasons -- energy! Health! (I was going to include "cuteness" on this list, but then got a little annoyed with myself for perpetuating the stereotype that only stick-thin women can or should be rated as cute. Because you know what? Not true, people. Not even a little bit true) -- but which, oddly, also has some drawbacks.

Such as needing new clothing.

As much as I love to shop (and ooooh I love to shop), I don't particularly enjoy shopping for clothes because you have to try them on. In my life, trying on pants is the equivalent of some heinous military-style torment. I would rather poke myself in the eye multiple times than have to try on jeans. (I know this is directly contradictory to the "I'm cute no matter what size I am" statement, but I'm a complex girl and you're going to have to keep up.)

In my head, trying on pants makes me feel the same way I felt when I was in high school, sitting on the sidelines during slow dances.  It's a little less than festive and is the quickest way to crush my mood. Intellectually, I know it's not me. It's the people who design pants for those among the female population who have, you know, no ass. Or hips. Since I possess both of those items, the pants are not my friends (and shorts? FORGET IT. I wear skirts all summer long because I simply can't deal with the horror). I know that it's not just me. But in light of the "I have tried on 23894674 pairs of pants in this stuffy, poorly lit dressing room and NONE of them have fit me properly and my blood sugar is getting low and I may harm the next salesperson who asks me if I need some help in here because, sans an impromptu lipo treatment, there is NOTHING she can do for me. NOTHING. Except GO AWAY. Screw it, I don't need stupid jeans. I'll go buy another purse -- those ALWAYS fit" experience, I also know that intellect and emotional reactions are not always, er, in sync.

(This is one of the reasons I have a LOT of purses, by the way.)

So I avoid the shopping for jeans. Or dress pants. Or really, any kind of clothing I have to try on. As such, I made a deal with myself. "Okay, so I know that I'll have to get some new clothes ... you know, eventually ... but I'm going to wait. As long as the pants stay UP, I'm good, right?"

Right. It was a workable plan.

Until the day excess fabric and gravity reared their ugly head.

I was in the parking lot at my building. Arms full of grocery bags. Not a  spare hand to be had, walking to the door when I felt ... a breeze. As though my sweater had slid up. Except that I could FEEL where my sweater was, and it seemed like a normal place for a sweater to be resting. Then I realized: my sweater wasn't moving UP. My pants were moving DOWN.

And I couldn't pull them up because my arms were full of stuff in my typical "live on the second floor, carrying everything up in one trip" fashion.

And they were threatening to continue their downward spiral.

I was frozen in the parking lot. What to do?  WHAT TO DO? If I didn't move -- or at least, not very much, I might be able to avoid mooning the entire complex. MAYBE. But there would need to be strategic planning and some crafty walking skills employed.

I don't know if you've ever attempted walking without moving your legs at all, but it's not easy. It's sort of like a sliding, gliding motion. With very very small "steps". I can guarantee that it looked ridiculous, but not nearly as ridiculous as I would have looked with my pants around my ankles in a public place.

With every shuffle/step, I could STILL feel them wanting to go. Oh please oh please, I thought, please don't let my pants fall off.

I made it to the foyer of the building and dropped EVERYTHING and gave my pants a mighty hike. Oh happy day. Completely clothed! Yahoo! Now I just had to pick all of my bags back up and make it up the stairs and into my apartment. No problem!

Small problem.

There is no way to shuffle up stairs, and apparently, my jeans had decided that they'd just had enough. They gave up. They had been clinging as long as they could and they could do no more. The instant I started up the stairs, they started to go. Realizing that the best thing I could do was book it, I RAN up the stairs and into my apartment, slamming the door behind me just as my pants fell off.

My cat, startled by the slamming door and my new appearance as a confused nudist, looked at me curiously before falling off of the couch.

I believe that I will be honouring the deal I made with myself and buying new pants. Oh and also?

A BELT.