An Exercise in Humiliation

Fall is my favorite season. I love the crisp weather. I love to watch the leaves turn colors. I love to watch football. I love to sleep in a cool room covered in blankets. I love to bundle up in warm sweaters. I love almost everything about fall.

In anticipation of the cooler weather, I took a look at my fall wardrobe. I was doing pretty well, lots of sweaters, lots of long sleeved shirts. However, one area I was lacking in was jeans.

You see I've lost some weight since spring. Not enough to fit into my old skinny jeans but enough that some of my fat jeans don't fit so well. Jeans are my basic wardrobe in cool weather. I wear them every day and I can't get by with just one pair that fits. So I had to get another pair.

Normally, having to go shopping would send me into fits of joy. I love to shop. I love to buy new clothes. But I hate buying jeans. I hate it almost as much as I hate buying a swiming suit, which I hate a lot.

So I went to the mall. In each store I'd grab several pairs of jeans of different styles and washes. And unfortunately different sizes as I am currently between sizes. Then its off to the dressing room where the unplesantness begins.

Dressing rooms are evil places. The lighting and the mirrors are all designed to make you look bad, awful, horrible. And then you have to take off your clothes. Yuck.

So I kick off my old comfortable pair of jeans and struggle into the first one on the pile. Of course they don't fit. Sigh. One down, many more to go.

When you finally find a pair that "fits", you have to engage in some dressing room aerobics to see if they truly fit. You bend, you stretch, you kick. Richard Simmons would be proud.

If the jeans pass the Sweatin' To the Oldies test, there is one more important test to pass. How do they make your arse look? So you stand in the dressing room and shake your arse like you were in a George Michael video. You look from behind. You look from the side. You gotta have faith.

If you are truly lucky you can find a pair that actually makes your arse look good (or at least doesn't make it look bad). So you run, no sprint, out of the dressing room with these jeans and plunk down your credit card. All is right with the world, until you take them home and wash them. And then it begins again.