Ok, I'm going to make a series of confessions and you as my closest and loveliest friends must take a vow not to mock me. BECAUSE I SAID SO, that’s why, Cyndi. But if you must mock me, make it entertaining, because I am high maintenance and I require a great deal of entertaining.
First off, my favorite pair of pants in the world is a pair of tan cords. Yes, yes, corduroy, just like the little bear in the book that my children love (but I despise). I love them for a couple of reasons. They are comfortable, they are warm, and now that Vie lost 20 pounds, they fit like they were made for me and make me grateful for curves I've never before been grateful for. There, and yes I did say corduroy. So there.
The second thing I'm going to admit is that they are men’s pants. Why on earth do men’s pants seem so much more comfortable, flattering and affordable to me? I'm not much of a conspiracy theory fan, but my gawd, why on earth do the fashion gurus do this to us if it is not a conspiracy to make us look ugly in all of our (overpriced) clothes so well want to throw them all out upon getting them home from the stores with the mirrors (you KNOW the mirrors I'm talking about) and run out to buy some more?
The third pearl I'll drop just for you, because I know you need the laugh. These pants, that I love, that accentuate my neglected womanliness in such a delightful way...hummm....well they were sort of cast offs of my husband's who inherited them from a former 70 year old boss who had invested in a whole brand new GOLF wardrobe for himself. So yeah, I’m wearing hand-me-down, old-man golf pants to the office today and feeling fabulous about it. But hey, they're cute. And if I'm deluding myself and they really look like hand-me-down, old-man golf pants, well, I'm also wearing an extremely low cut blouse to detract attention from them.
The thing is you see, I've lost some weight, yes, but I'm still, well, me. That means that no matter how good I think they might look, one trip down the hallway to use the bathroom reminds me why my feminine curves and corduroy is a bad match. Bad, bad, bad.
Now I tried walking just bending at my knees, but this was-um-impossible. I considered caving and going home at lunch to change, but lets be honest, I just moved and I was lucky to find the clothes I have on. And while the work I do is hardly retail sales, there is not an option of sitting quietly (ahem) at my desk all day.
So I did what any sensible person would do. I embraced the embarrassment. I figured if people were going to chortle about my ill advised clothing choice, the least I could do was make it memorable for them. So I put on the best hard stepping runway model walk I had in me. Let me tell you what I heard. I heard the fall of my steps, I heard the woosh of air past my ears, I heard the angels singing, but I did not hear my thighs rubbing together. And that's when it occurred to me that runway models are the smartest people in the whole world. Who knew you could silence corduroy? I feel like world peace is within our grasp people, really. Call Tyra Banks, I’m sure she’s working on it.
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