The sad saga of my new pants

I LOATHE shopping for pants. So much so that when the friction of my mighty thighs erodes the fabric between my legs, I apply iron-on Bondex patches to the insides of the holes. When the patches start to curl up at the edges and rub my inner thighs raw, I pull them off and apply new ones. (You can do this until what’s left of the fabric becomes translucent; then it’s really time for a new pair of pants.)

Rather than patch the thighs of my 4-year-old jeans for the third time, I decided to treat myself and order some new ones online (because I couldn’t bear the prospect of rooting through the jumbled stacks of big-lady pants in the hope of finding two in my size and then having to try them on in the cruel light of the store fitting room). I read the reviews and someone said these J-Lo jeans smelled like mothballs but she was keeping them because she had finally found a pair that really fit. Say no more. I can’t afford to be picky about how my pants smell.

Well, this reviewer and I are evidently proportioned much differently. I ordered a size up from my insufferably tight pants, and these new ones smelled fine and felt delicious, but I could easily slip them on and off without unbuttoning them.

Because I was too lazy to return the jeans and also insane, I decided to tailor them to fit my apparently disproportionately tiny waist. Though they were the same size, one pair needed to be taken in 3-1/2 inches and the other 4-1/4 inches. So I measured and stitched the waistbands in two places, and when I tried them on it looked like I was wearing a fanny pack under my shirt. I ended up having to sew the back pockets closed so they wouldn’t poof open and then stitch crazy makeshift darts under the waistband and then hand-stitch down the parts I had folded under because I couldn’t get all that fabric under the presser foot of the machine — and they still poof out in a weird way. But my motto has always been if you’re looking at my ass you deserve to live with whatever horrible sight you can’t unsee.

So now I am once again wearing Frankenstein pants; they’re just a different kind of freak show. But they do have a fancy rhinestone-encrusted button, which I will treasure as my gorgeous little secret since I plan on going to the grave without anyone ever seeing the waistband of my jeans.

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