Lady In The Worn Out Jeans

I have decided I am getting older, and never mind that ‘more mature’ nonsense. I never was one for being politically correct. Things tend to fly off the wrong side of my brain, land on the sharp edge of my tongue, out into the good old more then likely polluted, atmosphere. I am always having fun with the spontaneous use of my language. Of course, I also am always apologizing as well.

Back to my story. Let me paint you a word picture. If I were six feet four, I’d have the most beautiful shape, but I am not, and I don’t. I am five foot seven and run to the ‘thirty pounds over’ limit that once qualified me as being ‘pleasingly plump’

I decided I was going to dress more eloquently the other day. Get out of the sweats with the cuffed bottom cut off, and the old black jeans that had somehow gotten stretched out, over the past few months. This is not to mention worn out. The black jeans especially. I can’t quite determine how the jeans can stretch in the backside and shrink in the waist. They just don’t make clothes the way they used too. (We used to call this attire ‘grubbies) This would call, of course, for my doing the most favorite thing of all. I call it ‘pulling a ’Custer’ and yelling “CHARGE”, while holding my ‘almost over used’ plastic card high over my head, for all to see, and dashing madly here and there throughout any store, they’ll let me in.

My hubby took me out to eat the other day, and contrary to normal behavior, he picked out my menu, from the local ‘slide your tray along’ and be quick about it” café. Back he came. On his side of the tray was this delicious looking hamburger, just oozing with wonderful grease. I could almost taste it. French fries were brown and crunchy, piled to overflowing on the side. I got this overwhelming urge to reach out and touch someone. Someone??? Heck yes! My husband. I’ll fill you in on why.

Well, good old hubby handed me my side of the tray content. That amounted to slightly yellowed large curd cottage cheese on a bed of limp lettuce. Three or four slices of over ripened peaches with last year’s parsley decorated the side. I hate cottage cheese. He knew it when he bought it. I have to give him some credit however. He did get me a hamburger without the bun. Someone must have used a dozen paper towels to blot it. It was dryer then my old aunts sense of humor.

This trip to the ‘deli’ had followed a private discussion, about my clothing problems with the hubby. “Try to have a decent clothing discussion with a man that isn’t a fashion designer, and you’ll be in trouble! Believe me.” It ended in him saying, “Well, honey, what do you expect. You are getting ‘settled’ in your older age.” Settled in now made its way into my private dictionary titled “Words I love to hate”.

Do you know, I actually entertained thoughts of bodily harm toward this man I’ve loved (and may I add faithfully entertained with my opinions) all these long years. Well, despite the rush hour traffic in this food factory, I did reach out and touch someone. Hubby got a good swift kick on the shins. I can’t tell you how glad I was that we had parked Old Betsy out in the North Forties, to have the exercise of walking. I loved ever step he limped as we made it out to the car.

The next day, I headed out to the local /discount, buy anything, but don’t forget the clothing section either’ type store. Straight for the jeans section I went. That was a laugh. They just don’t make decent jeans for we more endowed ladies anymore either. Having noticed that enevitable fact, I rushed on to the men’s department.

I rounded up a sales clerk from the employee’s coffee room, and hauled her over to where I’d found black jeans. Why do I love black jeans? “Honey, these are the ones I like. They do seem a bit snug. Undoubtedly someone put the buttonhole to far over. Oh well. We all make mistakes. You got these in a slightly ummmmmmmmmmmm…slightly larger size? You do? Thanks. I’ll take ten pair (for now). I didn’t want to start that exercise regime tomorrow anyway.

Have a nice day, ladies.