I waited another hour or so for the laundry in the drier to finish and swapped over another load.
For the last year or two, I've had three pairs of pants for work that fit, one of which I hate. I have two more pants that are roughly two sizes too small. I can put them on, but they're uncomfortable and look terrible. I put off buying new pants again and again. Maybe I'd lose weight and the too-tight pants would fit again. Maybe pants that fit would appear miraculously at the back of my closet. Maybe I'd win the lottery, quit my job and it wouldn't matter any more.
Really, I didn't want to go shopping. Especially for work pants. I still have traumatic memories of buying pants in 2005.
But Martin Luther King day is one of those holidays that stores like to use as an excuse for a sale, so I dragged myself out of the house and to Sears, since Sears is where I ended up getting pants the last two times.
As soon as I got to the clothing department, I wanted to leave again. I knew what I wanted -- the two comfortable pants are side-zip with a stealth elastic waist -- but I had no idea how to find it among the racks and racks of women's sizes and misses' and short and long and petite and low waist and 'natural waist' and low-rise and eeeeeee.
And I kind of wanted pockets. Comfortable creased-leg pants with pockets. It seemed far too much to ask.
I told myself sternly that I had to at least look at their selection before I ran away. After 15 or 20 minutes of searching, I found a couple of styles that looked promising and tried them on. One was too long and one was too tight, but they were otherwise acceptable. Neither was exactly what I wanted. One style had pockets, but they were actually pull-on with the distinctive and ugly crinkly elastic waist. I decided I didn't care that much since I hardly ever wear work shirts that tuck in anyway. The other style had a flat waistband but no pockets. SIGH. I can live without pockets, too. Armed with the knowledge of the style, size, and length I wanted, I returned to the fray. In another fifteen minutes, I had five pairs of comfortable new pants and made my escape.
It feels like a kind of defeat, admitting that I am a size 12 and not likely to bed an 8 again -- at least not any time in the next year or two.
On the other hand, l think of what beetiger once said: 'I don't hate my body, I just hate not having clothes that fit it and look nice.'
'Look nice' might be an overstatement, but I am comfortable in my new pants. With pockets, even.