When my older son was two years old, my mother-in-law (MIL) gave me a gray Pink Panther track suit for Christmas. The Pink Panther’s head – in hot pink, of course, covered the back of the jacket. My eyebrows rose at the “PINK PANTHER” lettering that ran down the side of one pant leg. Not quite my style, but it was better than having “JUICY” or “PINK” in large letters across my behind. (I don’t use my backside for advertising, although I’ve got the real estate for at least two lines.)
“Isn’t it cute?” MIL gushed.
“Um…yes,” I hesitated. If you’re fourteen.
“Go try it on,” she urged.
Panicked, I looked at my hubby. With a smile, he said, “Yeah, babe. Go try it on.”
I made a mental note to tell my MIL he wanted a Speedo next Christmas. Then I did as requested, so as not to be rude.
The room I used (unfortunately) had a mirror. The pants looked as tight around my midsection as they felt. They were held up by a drawstring tie, meant to sit on my hips. To my horror, my C-section flab threatened to spill over the waistband. I tried to suck it in, but couldn’t fight gravity and lazy ab muscles. I had no waist or hips, so I was one-wrong-tug-from-a-two-year-old away from total humiliation.
Even though I said the suit was too small, my MIL insisted it looked good. When she revealed she bought it in the Junior’s section, it all made sense. Girls at that age still have waists, hips and flat tummies. I, on the other hand, do not.
I want to be stylish but not trendy. In reality, I’m neither, but I try.
This year, I bought a pair of fleece pajamas the day after Thanksgiving. When I got home, I had to cut the tags to get the pajamas unbundled. The size looked about right, but I decided to try them on just to be sure. After I slipped the pants on, I bent down to get the shirt off the floor. The pants slid down my backside in a way that any plumber would admire.
Seven years and (one more C-section) later, I was reminded of the traumatic track suit experience. A sick feeling crept over me as I dug the tags out of the trash. Tiny letters on the side of the tag confirmed the ugly truth I already knew: “JUNIORS.”
I can add this to the list of things my momma didn’t tell me: my waist will get higher as I get older. (It can’t be that my tummy and backside get bigger.)
Still in my super-low-waist pajamas, I directed my frustration with clothing manufacturers at my hubby. He listened sat quietly in front of the TV as I complained they should label Junior’s clothes like they do Petites with a letter in front of the S, M, or L. Like maybe JS, JM, and JL?
Satisfied that hubby would get to sending complaints to the manufacturers (right after the football game,) I went back to the full-length mirror and did a few knee bends, pulling the matching shirt down to cover my back flesh, I thought about gathering the tags, driving to the store, and exchanging the pajamas, but then decided, “I just don’t care.”
Momma always told me I worried too much. I guess this is a step in the right direction. Although that could depend on whether you’re in front of me or behind me 🙂