Last weekend, for the first time in five months, I treated myself to an all-day shopping excursion.
I bought shoes and makeup and jewelry, so I was a happy girl. But I was also on a mission for some practical stuff.
I have at least thirty sweaters and a dozen white camisoles, (“I’m Sticking With It“) so I’m all set for tops (for a month, anyway).
But I needed pants. I have my whisker jeans, of course (“Gullible’s Travails“). And one gorgeous pair of dark green velour jeans. Luckily, (mysteriously really) all my old pants are too big.
It’s cold where I work. And I just can’t work cold. So I’ve played the only sympathy card I have – old age – which shows you just how desperate I am – and got myself a space heater.
And now my office gets up to about 78 degrees by the end of the day. But I’m still cold in the morning, and very cold if I have to go visit anyone else in the company. Actually, that last bit is pretty rare; everyone wants to visit ME during the winter months.
Anyhow, even with the space heater, I like to dress WARM when it’s cold.
So I went out looking especially for corduroy jeans.
I love cords. They are soft and warm, and that make that sweet little whistle to accompany your walk.
I found nice cords. Three pair in fact. I bought the requisite black and brown. And purple. (Don’t ask; I’m already sorry.)
But here’s the thing:
As I was putting them away, I noticed something very odd.
Here’s a new pair of jeans:
Here’s my old go-to jeans from four years ago:
What has happened to the zipper?
It seems that my old jeans had about ten inches of zipper. My new ones have about four inches.
I’ve lost about six inches in four years.
I consider myself amazingly stylish. I don’t think I had the Old-Man-In-Miami look four years ago. My pants certainly didn’t feel like they were introducing themselves to my rib-cage.
But then again, I don’t feel like Shakira now. I’m no Dancing-With-The-Stars-Bikini-Waxing low rider.
And I don’t think I have Plumber’s Crack when I sit down (although I am reaching behind me right now to make sure – because I know my husband would be gleeful and silent if I’m ass-revealing). But no; I’m okay.
So what is it? How can I have lost six inches of material between my crotch and my waist and not feel any different? Am I losing my middle? Is it another side-effect of the passage of time?
I decided I needed to conduct some scientific research. So I went to the Center For Old Lady Observation: Wal-Mart.
I strolled around watching all the little white-haired pastel-clad five-footers.
And, YES. They HAVE lost their waists. Their boobs and their hips are about two inches apart.
No wonder the old gals wear elastic waist pants.
But I hope in ten years when I’m pushing the Wal-Mart cart, the fashion industry will have invented the two inch zipper.
Don’t make me wear elastic waist pants!