I’m never buying pants again. I mean it, never. They make them for tall and skinny ladies, forgetting some of us are, let‘s say, “vertically challenged.” I plan to write a strongly worded letter to some of these people just to let them know that they’ve given me a complex.
Along with my letter, I intend to include a copy of the therapy bill for which they are ultimately responsible. If I’m boycotting pants, this leaves me without any. Walking down the street will now be traumatic for not only myself, but any passers-by that may encounter me during the length of my pants-free protest.
My letter will read as follows:
Dear Sir or Madame,
I am writing to tell you that I think there may have been a problem in your pants making facility. Not ever having worked in the pants profession, I don’t know exactly what has happened, but am of firm belief that my theory needs further investigation.
As it seems, none of your merchandise fits me properly. Your “Sweetheart” line makes me look like a glob of Play-Doh that’s been shoved into a can that’s to small. Your “Lovely” line is so tight in the waist that 20 minutes after I put them on, I lose feeling in my legs. And lastly, while trying on a pair of jeans from your “Hottie” line last week, I lost an ovary while straining to zip them up.
I am 5’3 and have the body of a toddler that needs to take a break from the cookie jar. Every time I try on your product I have panic attacks, assuming that the three feet of extra leg length means that I’m shrinking. My doctor has repeatedly assured me this is not the case. You’ll be getting the bill for this, and the missing ovary, as soon as possible.
I hope you take this letter to heart. I’m only trying to help and am getting tired of going into cold sweats every time I see denim.
Short and Squatty
I don’t know who these clothing manufacturers are using as a sizing guide. I’ve not seen any waif-like Jolly Green Giants around, so one can only assume that they’re just taking a wild guess at how women are made. It’s madness.
I know not everyone is as short as me. I also know that not everyone is a size 2 and 6 foot tall. So where does that leave us everyday ladies? The women who like to eat Snickers Bars and prefer fried food over Slim Fast?
It leaves us wearing funky fitting britches, that’s where.
Nobody will go with me to shop for pants. It takes forever. They’re either to small in the hips, to long in the leg or make my rear end look like it’s been through the wringer of an old school washing machine. I have no intention of walking around looking like I’ve been either poured into ,or swallowed up by, a pair of pants. I want something that fits.
Is it really to much to ask?
We all have an ideal body weight or shape preference I do, even though I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it will never happen for me. My chances of being built like Cindy Crawford or Tyra Banks are slim to none. Therefore, I’ve filed this dream under the “Ain‘t Gonna Happen” column on my bucket list.
Until these people understand my gripes, I will persevere. I’ll keep the dream alive that one day, small and dumpy will be in style. You can’t blame a girl for hanging on to hope, no matter how hopeless it may be.
Until next week, remember: The lady in the dressing room next door does not need medical attention. It’s only me, wrestling and quietly cursing at a pair of Levi’s.
Mandi Hayes-Spencer is a columnist for The Greenup County Beacon and author of the upcoming series The Crantz Chronicles. She lives in Flatwoods, Kentucky with her husband and son.