Shopping can be a very volatile experience. It can go really well, and then BANG! A little muffin top here, a little pooch here can turn your day of shopping into a nightmare. Today was no different. I needed jeans. For the last few weeks my legs have been drowning in a sea of denim. Renegade pant legs have taken hold of my feet rendering them useless mid stride and landing me on my face on the carpet. Countless wedgies have been bestowed upon me. My intimates are no longer intimate, but a shining beacon for all to see. It is the time when sexy hip huggers find themselves turning into desperate ass grabbers. It is the time to reward myself with a new wardrobe, albeit a wardrobe on a budget. So there I was grabbing15 pairs of jeans off the Goodwill racks, one hand remaining in a belt loop of my own pants as not to experience the humiliation of premature separation.

 Jeans that look like they fit go to into the cart. Only until you get into the dressing room do you actually look at the sizes. . My time in the dressing room was blissful. Twelve’s were way too big, the eights were working. Then I got to the ninth pair. SIZE 4! Are you kidding? Serious? Did I actually think that they would fit? They don't look too far off the mark. Were the guts there to dare try them on? What the hell? Yes. I slid those bad boys up (okay there might have been one or ten hops) I took a deep breath and successfully buttoned them on. Yes! Then I went for the zipper. All of a sudden I was back in the eighties, watching my aunt supine on her bed while two friends wrestled her zipper up with pliers. What I would have given for a pair of both. I said a little prayer and gave a yank. And then it happened. The zipper went up, but not before breaking every tooth along the way.

Dejected, I unbuttoned the deceptive pants, only to find out the horrible truth. Did I say all of the teeth had broken? I was terribly wrong.  The cheaply made rags maintained their vice-like grip with the top two steel teeth. Groaning in anguish, the muffin top grew exponentially. I tried to relieve myself of the devil jeans as torrents of panic rolled in. What could I do? What kind of explanation could I muster while stuck in size 4's? What would I say to the EMT's should they arrive? Or should I just take the price tag and suffer the walk of shame to the cash register and out to the car until I could surgically remove them within the confines of my house? Oh hell no. A mouse could ski moguls down my thighs.
So I did what any other normal (or desperate) woman would do. I birthed the suckers. Squeezing, pushing, pulling and screaming they finally came off. After scraping the last of the cruel pants off of my calves, I came to the conclusion that, being it was the Goodwill, the zipper was probably already broken, slipped them back on the hanger, wiped the tears and slithered out of the dressing room. Whistling, I checked to make sure the coast was clear and nonchalantly slipped the size 4’s back on the rack. The eights will do nicely, thank you very much.
When I got home, my lovely husband was in shock and awe with my new jeans. The Six inch heels didn't hurt either. "wow honey!" he said, assessing his matrimonial property. "don't take this the wrong way, but you look so skinny when you are in heels! gorgeous!" My husband is a catch, what  can I say?
Now, instead of dieting my way to size 4 bliss, I'm taking another approach. I'm not going to lose anymore weight, I'm going to gain inches. From now on, when you see me in the grocery store, you will no longer see the mother of two at a mere 5' 8", but a svelte 6'2" goddess, wincing in pain while I strut down the aisles wearing dirty sweatpants and stripper heels.