As a child, around the time when girls had been cured of cooties, one of the only things my mother insisted I do, even worse than taking a bath, was trying on clothes at the local department store. Because the saying, “growin’ like a weed”, means something in the south, I unfortunately had to endure this torture every five-six months lest my britches seem as if they’re receding from the rising tide. The changing of the seasons was the worst.

Now that I am a mostly functioning adult, I still dread shopping for anything, especially knitted garments. I am ashamed to admit, but I have more than one pair of pants somewhere, buried like an old dog, deep in the bowels of my closet, which I have never worn. Had I just tried them on before I left the store, there would be no need to explain to the First Lady why I only wear three of the ten pairs of pants in my closet. But, because I am not Superman, I have no interest in changing clothes inside a public phone booth.

One would think I would learn, but once home, not being able to snap the button to unite the east and west side around my waistline is a clear sign I should not clothes shop unsupervised. Because I can be lazy, and it takes great courage for me to cross the threshold of any department store, returning my ill begotten purchases is usually not within my purview. I guess those designer blue jeans will just need to remain on my shelf another season. I am sure they will fit one day.

At least I tried…