My Pants Are Trying to Kill Me

My Pants Are Trying to Kill Me

My pants have been too tight all day confirming that I am, in fact, too big for my britches.

Or am I?

When I hiked these jeans up over my hips this morning and plopped myself down on the bed so that I could button them, I assumed that the material would stretch out in a few hours and they’d be fine.

After all, they were the same size as the jeans I usually wear.

The. Same. Freaking. Size.

But at the moment, I was sporting a muffin top extraordinaire and had to figure out a top that would hide the overhang until this situation got under control. I chose a blue tank top and matching cardigan.    This was a job for Two-Tops. I said a silent “thank you” to the HVAC logic in my work building, which is:  “65°?  Crank up the AC so that space heaters are necessary.”

By 2 pm I was sitting in a meeting and the pants still had not stretched.  Or if they had, not enough.  I could feel my liver, spleen, stomach, and about a mile of intestines creeping up on my lungs.  I started to think about internal decapitation (that’s a thing) and if it’s equivalent was possible in the torso.

Meetings are excruciating enough without having to deal with my pants cutting me in half.

The second I left that conference room, I unbuttoned and partially unzipped my pants.  Oh yes I did.  And my second silent thank you of the day was to myself for having the wisdom to wear Two-Tops.

But this would never have happened if women’s sizes were uniform measurements that all clothing manufacturers followed, like Men’s Clothing. There I said it.

But there’s more!  Of course there is.

Let us not forget the changes in bust, waist, and hip measurements to this Non-Standardized Sizing System through the years, and you have the manipulation of numbers minus logic which can only be the basis for Common Core Math.  Women’s Clothing Sizes are the only real-world application to that convoluted mess that nobody understands.

Because nobody truly understands this mind-bending fool-yourself sizing system.

Here’s an example:  people (I’m not sure who these people are) like to point out that in the late 1950’s early 1960’s Marilyn Monroe wore a size 12.  That is the same size I wear today, including these evil body-severing jeans. And I am no Marilyn Monroe (although I did have a “thing” for JFK when I was 3-4 years old but that’s another story).

By today’s standards, and depending on the designer/manufacturer, Miss Marilyn would wear anything from a size 00 (that’s double zero because zero is too big) to a size 8.

Say it with me folks:  W T F????

Knowing this, I should have known better when I chose to wrestle myself into 10 year old size 12 Lee jeans marked 12L (L for long). These were my “fat pants” after all.  (Fat pants – another topic for another day).  But I ignored all of it in favor of believing in the magic of stretching denim in non-stretch jeans.

I nominate the Levi Strauss company to standardize women’s clothing sizes once and for all.  This is one of the things that men do better than women.  I have never heard a man say that he feared that his pants were trying to strangle the lower half of his body, unless he intentionally wore the wrong size.

Maybe then I’ll start shopping for clothes again.
Just kidding.
In order for that to happen they would have to make a “Garanimals for Women” line.  I would be all over that.