Shopping...
Vanity is a cruel mistress. She can bring you to your knees with a glance or raise you up to the angels with the right whispers. Unfortunately for me, I’ve just been slammed with the former, and at the temple of vanity itself, a clothes shop.
I used to love clothes shopping, a gentle stroll about town, slipping on some natty new trousers or a fancy shirt, to buy or not to buy? Oh, who am I kidding, I look great, of course I’ll buy it.
Now it’s nothing more than a nice walk ruined, a phrase I think some people have appropriated to describe golf. Probably the same people who enjoy shopping.
As I trudge my through racks of clothes, most of which would and do look great on a manikin or those lucky few with the physique of one, I can feel myself studiously ignoring the tug at the waistband of my already comfy and worn in old jeans and fingering trouser sizes that fit me before I got married.
As an aside, there is some truth in the adage that once you’re married you put on weight, although it’s not, as some bitter long-timers might say, because you don’t have to try any more.
It’s because the newly wedded status means you’re out drinking and eating with the people you didn’t have enough time for on the day, or you love each so much that a massive takeaway and the sofa together are your idea of heaven.
As with anything that requires practice, this gluttonous lifestyle slowly becomes the norm and I can’t now think of a weekend in the last 4 years that didn’t revolve around eating, with friends or at home.
I’m definitely not complaining about it, I love it and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
What I would change however is my outdated view of myself and the every time surprise at realising I’m a bit fatter than I thought.
It’s this surprise then that strikes a crushing blow when the 2 pairs of same waisted trousers I’ve picked up, 2 because I’m not 100% on my leg length, are un-buttonable.
My first clue should probably have been that of the 2 leg lengths, both were too short, and if I can’t even get that right, how could I possibly think the more sensitive, rounder middle bit will be right?
Also, as it turns out, one can’t put stuff in ones trouser pockets when one is wearing anything other than jeans, a rule I absolutely refuse to honour as what on Gods blue planet are they for, if not for putting things in?
This rule however, appears to be so painfully obvious to Wife that my already cracked and weeping self-image receives the hammer blow of idiocy and I storm out of the changing room dropping great hunks of dignity behind me, cursing this stupid new job and their dress policy.
Thankfully, my rather aimless thumping about led me to a much more acceptable pair of corduroy jeans, so swallowing my pride I dropped slightly lower in the pile and bought some that actually fit me (and have the word “stretch” on them, just in case).
I used to love clothes shopping, a gentle stroll about town, slipping on some natty new trousers or a fancy shirt, to buy or not to buy? Oh, who am I kidding, I look great, of course I’ll buy it.
Now it’s nothing more than a nice walk ruined, a phrase I think some people have appropriated to describe golf. Probably the same people who enjoy shopping.
As I trudge my through racks of clothes, most of which would and do look great on a manikin or those lucky few with the physique of one, I can feel myself studiously ignoring the tug at the waistband of my already comfy and worn in old jeans and fingering trouser sizes that fit me before I got married.
As an aside, there is some truth in the adage that once you’re married you put on weight, although it’s not, as some bitter long-timers might say, because you don’t have to try any more.
It’s because the newly wedded status means you’re out drinking and eating with the people you didn’t have enough time for on the day, or you love each so much that a massive takeaway and the sofa together are your idea of heaven.
As with anything that requires practice, this gluttonous lifestyle slowly becomes the norm and I can’t now think of a weekend in the last 4 years that didn’t revolve around eating, with friends or at home.
I’m definitely not complaining about it, I love it and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
What I would change however is my outdated view of myself and the every time surprise at realising I’m a bit fatter than I thought.
It’s this surprise then that strikes a crushing blow when the 2 pairs of same waisted trousers I’ve picked up, 2 because I’m not 100% on my leg length, are un-buttonable.
My first clue should probably have been that of the 2 leg lengths, both were too short, and if I can’t even get that right, how could I possibly think the more sensitive, rounder middle bit will be right?
Also, as it turns out, one can’t put stuff in ones trouser pockets when one is wearing anything other than jeans, a rule I absolutely refuse to honour as what on Gods blue planet are they for, if not for putting things in?
This rule however, appears to be so painfully obvious to Wife that my already cracked and weeping self-image receives the hammer blow of idiocy and I storm out of the changing room dropping great hunks of dignity behind me, cursing this stupid new job and their dress policy.
Thankfully, my rather aimless thumping about led me to a much more acceptable pair of corduroy jeans, so swallowing my pride I dropped slightly lower in the pile and bought some that actually fit me (and have the word “stretch” on them, just in case).
posted by Paul Seymour at 10:22 AM
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