Today, I lamented over my shopping woes with my significant other. As a man, he benefits from a far less crushing shopping experience than I. As a man, he has the option of finding pants that fit on his waist, rather than the dreaded Low Rise.
I have yet to uncover a store in the quaint, suburbian town, where I live, that carries pants that fit on the waist. Once I have, I will achieve Nirvana and ascend to the highest plane of spiritual existence, where I will be freed from the cycle of frantically searching for trousers, jeans, and drawers of any kind.
Most significantly, he can pull any brand of pants out of the clothing rack in his size, buy them without trying them on, bring them home, and they fit. Why is it that he can savor such a pleasurable experience with pants while I, the female fashion consumer, range anywhere from a size 8 to a size 14, depending on the brand, should be going bald from pulling out my hair?
As I elaborated upon my shopping ordeal, he looked baffled as one would when a bit of information simply does not match their preconceived world-knowledge. Why, since he finds pants that fit every time, why, oh why can't I? Surely, I must be joking; locating pants that fit cannot possibly be as difficult as I'm describing! Worse yet, how can it be that I purchase the pants in a specific brand, never gain an ounce, only to find that same size and brand do not fit the next year? Oh, for Pete's sake!
Honey. Searching for the pants that fit is like unearthing the Ark of the Covenant.
He has agreed to accompany me upon my next shopping excursion to see the truth behind my words. He's an empathetic man. I have this feeling that he will never look upon women's fashion the same way again.