Well, I need more than just pants, but pants is all I'm getting, because I sort of have shirts, socks and shoes. They're not fabulous, but whatever. They're better than sweat pants, which I understand are not exactly standard office wear. (Yet!)
So, I needed to go shopping, and I needed to do it without my wife. See, Salad Eater is a beautiful human being, and she has good taste. She also went to fashion design school (or whatever it's called). It was her first love and her life plan. I guess that's why some crazy teachers had to drive her out of the field, but hey, it all worked out for the best (for me, I mean--otherwise I wouldn't have married her and I'd be the same miserable bastard I was before we met. She kinda got screwed.) If she had come to the store with me, she would have fussed and meddled and plucked at the waist and tucked in the pockets and tugged on the cuffs. I hate all that. I look bad. I look bad in old clothes. I look bad in new ones. I didn't want to look good--I was aiming at presentable.
I know. Dare to dream, right?
So, I waved the family off to their bus and grabbed the tape measure. I wrapped it around my waist. I look at the number. Damn. Is that my waist size or my latitude? That was it. I've been losing weight slowly, but I was going to have to speed up the process. I was going to have to seriously lose shed some fat (actual breakfast: Two over easy eggs and six slices of fried polenta with formaggio tomato sauce).
I took the bus down to the Nordstrom Rack, which is where they sell everything they couldn't unload at their main store. It's catch as catch can, but you do get a good look at what no one but cheap fat guys who don't care how they look are willing to buy.
Pleats. Pleats on big, big pants. Really, this should be a no brainer. No one should be making pants that are >38 inches at the waist with pleats. Even I know that I shouldn't wear pleats.
Of course, Salad Eater felt the need to remind me before I left that pleats were banned. Personally, I was insulted that she thought I needed to be told. Had she forgotten all the time we spent watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? How could she forget all that quality time?
Anyway, I had four criteria for the pants I intended to buy:
- No pleats.
- It has to fit.
- No dry cleaning.
- Under fifty bucks.
- Nothing that would humiliate me.
Okay, that's five, but that last one really came into play a couple times.
The problem with being fat is that there aren't a lot of clothes in my size. I was lucky to find three pants, which was my target number. I was also lucky to find two pairs of jeans to buy. I searched the whole room for more than an hour and a half, and tried on about 15 different pairs of pants. I needed a shovel to get to the bottom of some of those piles of clothes.
Anyway, here are some of the things people don't buy: pants with very narrow blue and white stripes. Tshirts with made up brand names on them. White socks for feet between sizes 6-12. One hundred and twenty dollar wool pants made in Italy.
But my favorite? The white jeans with the western stitching on the back pocket and the picture of Buddha on the label. Seriously. Those weren't sold out.
Me, I'm not sure who thinks there are enough gay Buddhist cowboys out there to justify starting this whole line. Sure, this is Seattle, but come on. Then again, maybe they expected some sort of Brokeback Mountain trend, where women bought them for their boyfriends in the hope that it would transform them into Heath Ledger. (Those jeans gave me the idea for a different subject header for this post--"I wish I could fit you"--but I really, really didn't want to fit them. Besides, Brokeback Mountain parodies are so March 11th.
Back to the pants--one or two of them were still a bit tight. I knew Salad wouldn't approve, but I thought that maybe I could skip lunch, or have something small like a plum, so that they'd fit me a bit better on that first showing (actual lunch: A "Killer Burger" at the local pub along with a pint of ESB. I had the salad instead of the fries, though!). No worries, after the long, long walk home (I'm trying to walk off the weight--It kinda doesn't work) the pants all fit very nicely. They were even a little loose. Neat.
Now, all I have to do is keep up the walking while I'm working and writing--and being a Dad, too. Then I'll keep working on that long hard slog of losing weight (actual dinner: one-third of a pound of kielbasa with quinoa and peas).
I'm so doomed.