I had what I’ve been calling a Come To Jesus talk with J the other day. Without really revealing his end, let’s just say that I tried to put the best face on adulthood from what I’ve seen so far. “It can be…not so terrible.”
I sighed into the dark and then told him, “Okay, it’s sometimes fairly terrible.”
Mundane example: I finally reached critical mass on my pants-without-holes status. Every good pair jeans, save for one, had holes either normally placed in the knees or embarrassingly placed in crucial seams. There was now a dire need, forcing myself out of my human blanket burrito on Sunday and stumbling out to the stores, because the thought of wearing skirts for the next weeks was completely unappealing.
I tried the trendy, thrift store: too tight, too loose, too much plaid.
Old Navy proofed fruitless too, and as a plus, since all pants came with cute little names, it also insulted my personality. You, ma’am, are not a Flirt, nor a Diva, nor a Sweetheart. With the names, they had intricacies of their own, from midrise, to lowrise, to please-be-sure-to-wax rise which came up to about my mid-thigh before I realized, no, I am pleased to have circulation in my legs, thank you.
I trudged my way to Target where I had the last real luck in finding pants. It was a couple months ago when a meh night became a trip to get margaritas which became a trip to get coffee which became a trip to go to Target, I had found the perfect pants in the clearance section. I don’t remember them being nearly cheap enough, but ah the American dream of credit lives on.
I wanted the exact same darn pants. I had the name of the pant and the size, but as I was circling the young fashion area much like a lioness in the savanna, I realized that my search would have to extend to the section right before the maternity section – the dreaded land of Mom pants.
Now, junk in ones trunk supposedly has some advantages as I hear the men like that sort of thing. Though, the advantages have some distinct corollary disadvantages. If the pants get too low, the fabric bunches out behind and above your…well, your behind, and you have to show off more crack than is usually called for in good company.
I walked down the aisles, suddenly there no longer posters of 17-year-olds looking sullenly bored in Converse shoes and pants, there were now posters of bland, pastel covered women with empty smiles. “Chic is your style,” it proclaimed. “No, it is not,” I grumbled to myself.
And lookie there; there were my pants, at an eleven dollar clearance.
I grumbled to the fitting room, gave a lilting grumble as they fit, and grumbled all the way to the check-out. Adulthood is unfair when you can rock Mom jeans without being a Mom, I thought.
“That’ll be five seventy-four,” said the clerk. I mentally shook my fist: the universe decided to soften the blow by marking it down even further, sneakily catering to my frugal side. I’ll be whizz with clipping coupons someday I’m sure.