Every year it seems my waist size is trying to catch up with my age. If this keeps up, by the time I hit retirement the only casual wear I’ll be able to get into will be a circus tent.
I have been on a blue jean hunt now for over two weeks. The men’s department in the trendy stores do not stock anything larger than a 38 waist. In fact, one salesman had the nerve to suggest, when I asked for a size 40, “We don’t carry anything that large.”
Like I’m shopping for The Jolly Green Giant. I mean, how much difference is there in a size 38 and a 40? Quite a lot if you listen to the sales crew who work in those boutique joints.
And the names, “Ron’s Ren Dey Vooz”, “The Look”, “Clint’s Cummerbunds and Blue Jeans” and “Where Style is King”. Sadly and desperately, I do need a new pair. The old one’s are comfy, broken in and look good but I had to use duct tape to seal the holes in the pocket lining. So I gave it the Grand Tour. First stop is Ron’s, only because it’s on the way to Clint’s. After those two, a short pause at “The Look” (just to look) where the stuff looks remarkably like Ron’s stuff and Clint’s except its marked up a little higher because its been dragged on the floor of a cotton baling ware- house by Peruvian grape-crushers.
The last place is offering up some hogwash about how the Miners of ‘49 rushed off to the goldfields clad stylishly in their pants. I’ll bet they didn’t rush too far in items such as the latest Spring fashion of mauve slacks hand stitched in rice paper masquerading as imitation denim.
“It’s all the rage now sir,” said the clerk.
It’s all the rage because anyone with an IQ higher than their waist size – like me - can’t get into them. Self-castration by too-tight jeans generates plenty of rage.
“One wearing is all it takes for you to fall in love with these jeans, sir.
“One wearing is all I’ll manage, and then the rear end will have created for itself the see-through look. Besides, I’m here for a pair of jeans not a relationship.
I finally found a pair that fit that were less than a size 40. They were a special brand with unique features; Buffalo Bill’s Relaxed Fit, Easy Access, Molasses-bleached, canoe-dragged, one hundred percent artificial denim. They were manufactured in a small European country by members of an obscure cult of anchovy worshippers. They fit just perfectly.
And, as the saleslady casually pointed out as I disembarked from the fitting room, “Those buttons on the fly do up sir.”
“Button front fly?”
“Yes, it’s a new look.”
A look like that can get me thrown in jail. Reluctantly I returned them to the clearance table, after all, they only had a tiny tear in the seat. No way was I going back into time to B.Z., Before Zippers.
I continued my search. I arrived at one store that advertised - All we sell is jeans! They were closed. But it looked like they had had a hell of a going out of business sale. Last resort was a joint purported to be the working man’s place for clothes. The weekly special there was the 52 waist and the 52 inch leg.
“We got a real deal on one hundred pairs. Terrific deal for the working man.”
“How many pairs are left?” I asked.
“Ninety-eight.”
It looked like both of the working men in the city didn’t need another 49 pairs of jeans each. Neither did I, unless I wanted to outfit my refrigerator in denim.
I never did find a true-blue pair of jeans I liked. I settled for a mock denim version of semi-casual jean wannabes. It was much like Goldilocks and the three Bears. I too three pairs into the change room. The first pair I tried on as sop to my self-esteem and my never say die optimism. With pair number two I had enough room to harbour a fugitive in beside me. Pair number three were just right. Thinking of the upcoming football season of beer, of chips, dip and other snack that I would require to keep up my strength as an armchair quarterback, I did ask the sales clerk to keep pair number two under the counter for me as a kind of backup.
I held out pair number three, “I’ll take these, please.”
“Oh, the semi-large, not-quite-huge size. I guess the optimistic size didn’t fit?”
“No, I’m stuck with virtual reality. I’m virtually convinced that the optimistic size and have parted company forever.”
“Yes, I can see that,” she said as she held them up. “I thought I heard a fight of some kind going on in that change room.”
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