I had some pants altered.
(Heh heh… that’s the best start to a blog post EVER.
After all, who doesn’t want to hear about pants? No one! That’s who.
No one doesn’t want to hear about pants.
Double negative = positive.
This is the problem with the world, people. Sometimes, two wrongs do make a right.
It’s all so very confusing.
But back to my pants! Which you cannot WAIT to hear about…)
I had some pants altered.
They’re good pants. Black. Soft. Classy. Double-button closure. Nice, long lines… if you can ever say that a woman who cheats on her tip-toes to reach 5′ 2″ has long lines, that is. (I have to believe it’s possible.)
They’re versatile pants. I can wear ’em to work. I can wear ’em to church. I can wear ’em out to dinner. I can never, ever wear them where my kids can wipe their noses on them; snail trails show up really well on black. OK; they’re mostly versatile. I take away that part about church. My children go to church. I wear jeans and flip flops. Sorry, God.
But, despite their wonderful qualities, I haven’t worn the pants much. See, I got them when I weighed a lot more than I do right now. And even though I’m still generously overweight (which is a way, WAY better term than obese… take that, stupid BMI!), I had to have the pants taken in. Taken in! Best pants phrase out there. Taken in. Taken in. Taken in. YEEHAW!
So I buckled down, found a tailor, and dropped trou in front of a perfect stranger to have my pants fixed. I figured, correctly as it turns out, that alterations are cheaper than buying new. And, other than exposing stretch marks and celulite, which I had the uncontrollable urge to explain to this kind woman (really – I stood there stuttering things like “twins” and “I swear I’m working on it” and other things I’ve blocked from my memory), it was a relatively painless process.
My pants were magically altered in one week.
Well, they were probably altered using mad seamstress skills, but it might as well be magic, as far as I’m concerned.
So I’m calling them my magic pants.
Stop it. I can call them whatever I want. Magic pants, it is.
I threw them on to wear to work today. And, guess what? They fit like magic.
After a morning of dealing with a flat tire (by which I mean Greg dealt with a flat tire… but what’s his is mine, right?), getting 1 out of 5 kids dressed (the others are still in their pajamas, as far as I know), feeding 3 out of 5 dry cereal and granola bars (what? you feed all of your kids?), and rushing to work a mere 30 minutes late (a marked improvement over last time), I was wearing pants that fit like magic.
I sat down in my car (on one pen and a whole pile of fingernail clippings… seriously, who’s sitting in the driver’s seat and clipping their nails?), and the pants… the non-lyrca, non-spandex, non-elasticized-in-any-way pants gave with my body. They flexed and bent just right. They didn’t bunch up. They didn’t snag. They didn’t cut or pull or do any of the weird things pants sometimes do.
And I thought, “Ah. Pants that fit are one of life’s great pleasures.”
And then I thought, “I must be losing more weight magically in my magic pants.” ‘Cause these pants, while they fit wonderfully when I tried them on at the tailor’s place, didn’t have quite this much give to them.
And then I thought, “This is the best day ever. Who cares about flat tires and parenting failures when you’ve got great, loose-fitting pants?”
I walked into work a happy and content woman. Amazing, considering that school starts for the kiddos next week, and I’m grossly unprepared from a planning, scheduling, and supplies perspective.
I wandered around work, completing tasks, and I considered the miracle of the pants. I reminded myself that, sometimes, when we least expect it, things just go right.
And that’s the same moment when I discovered…
my fly’s been unzipped all day.
Wearing suddenly tighter pants,