Shopping for clothes isn’t anything fun if you’re not in the weird shape the textile industry caters to (not that I’m unshapely it’s just the contribution of the normal range of adipose tissue that appears to be the problem here).
But nevertheless I was and still am in need of new trousers and so I asked Ellen to go shopping with me.
I foolishly thought that jeans shopping – provided the jeans came measured in inches – was pretty failsafe and foolproof. But that view had to be corrected after I tried to get a new pair of jeans.
So I picked up a couple of jeans with exactly the same inch measures as the one I was wearing and gave the attractive shop assistant with the gay pride badge a warm smile (and I think that she returned that smile) while walking over to the changing rooms followed by Ellen.
In the changing room I started with the first pair of jeans to no avail, moved on to the second pair and finally to the third all with the result that the jeans got stuck halfway up on my thighs. Because of the too tight jeans (which still were in the same inch measures, same cut and from the same shop like the one in my ownership) all the tissue on my thigh was pushed up and was hanging unsightly over the jeans like a lowered “muffin top”. Being in this position gave me every reason to start swearing to myself and cursing whoever decided that the inch needed a redefinition.
Ellen on the other side of the curtain though must have not understood that I was swearing too myself and started drawing the curtain to check on me and the jeans. If you think that just being spotted in this ugly position by a fried of yours is bad you definitely should reconsider as the attractive sales assistant walked past in precisely that moment.
Thank you, Ellen. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean that I have to stop looking for dates.
(After that débâcle both Ellen and I reached the conclusion that looking in a different store was a very wise decision.)