Last week, the hubs and I headed out to run the usual errands – plus a couple of extras – as we did all the ceremonial gathering of stuff for our Labor Day barbeques. Nothing special about THAT except for the extra number of stops on our itinerary and the dubious choice I made about my apparel. Bottoms, in particular.
You know those ‘desert island’ questions. If you could only have one food for the rest of your life…one book…one this or that? Because I’ve loved fashion forever and enjoyed my time as a costume assistant for theatre productions (also moonlighting as a stylist and wardrobe consultant whilst in college) I can answer the one piece of clothing query without thinking. I can’t help myself. I love clothes, good designs and I’m pretty picky. And desert island or not…I’ll be dripping sweat because my choice will be impractical. To say the least.
Long ago I wrote a silly post about what I had in common with Steve Jobs. No, no. Nothing technical or brilliant. Nothing entrepreneurial and bold. We were ‘twinsies’ because of our love of uniform-style dressing. Our beloved black turtlenecks.
Oh…how I love my black cashmere t-necks. Ideally, paired with broken-in Levi 501 jeans. A little ripped and worn…distressed by the wearer over time? Nirvana. And yep. Highly impractical desert island duds, but that’s my answer and I’m sticking with it. I’d be wearing THAT outfit until the end of time if I was forced to pick.
Thanks to Brewster Higley’s poem from 1871 and Daniel Kelley’s melody, the song well-known as “Home on the Range” comes to mind, as I giggle at my lack of practicality. With a couple of tweaks, Vicki-style, I’d revise the lyrics just a tad:
Oh! Give me a home where the Buffalo roam,Oh! Give me a home where the turtlenecks roam,
Where the Deer and the Antelope play;Where the jeans and the cowboy boots play;
Where never is heard a discouraging word,
And the sky is not clouded all day.And the Leeeee-viiiiii’s are comfy all day.
Silly and cheeky (wink). Right? Until I confess a little something. And this is where the cracking myself up comes into play. You see…my bottoms of choice for errand-running last week were a newish pair of beloved Levi’s. I’d given up on fitting into my beloveds and even though I know better, I’ve kept my fave well-worn pair as a symbol of my smoldering youth…nine million years in the rear-view mirror.
Maybe I thought I’d get that vibe back through a pair of pants? I know better. Still. I figured I’d give the new dungarees their due and take them out for a spin. But oh my. It’s been a minute since I’ve worn tight jeans and the detour into my youth was a bumpy ride as I remembered how hard it is to button those babies up…over my (sorry folks) post-menopausal pooch. But I did it and I was so excited that I was still breathing (barely) when I was done. I figured the activity of errand-running and getting in and out of the car repeatedly would commence the break-in period for these hard-as-nails non-stretch jeans.
As the hubs and I gathered up our lists and cooler for the car, I made my customary pit stop before heading out. Poor hubster, poor Paul. I think he thought I died in the bathroom. I mean…I WAS in there a long while and not because of any bodily or otherwise routine bathroom tasks. Nope. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to button my cross-body purse INTO my jeans.
Paul was concerned – at first – as he stood pacing by the back door. But he’s a patient man, so he waited and then was alarmed (but honestly, we’ve been married for four decades plus…he should know things by now) when he heard me laughing my Levi’s off. (Almost).
As I exited the bathroom and tried to explain, he smiled and waved me off and toward the chariot (his Jeep) which awaited. His face said “Listen, sister – I don’t know what brand of goofy sent you into giggle fits, but this train’s leaving the station.”
I got it. I composed myself as best I could, but my face was red and tears were rushing down my cheeks because my purse-strap-buttoned-into-the-jeans escapade was hilarious. To me. And challenging. I’ll have you know…it was MUCH harder to extricate the dumb purse than you might think.
But the hits just kept on coming with my self-imposed hysteria…because the next hurdle (literally) involved climbing into hubby’s grande-sized SUV. My aforementioned non-stretch jeans rendered the legs pretty darn snuggy and hiking my leg up to get into the passenger’s seat? Let’s just say it’s a good thing no neighbors have a view of our driveway from that angle. Whoa boy. I did it but I was waiting to be ushered onto a podium to get my gold medal. Brava, Vicki! Brava!
The best part…the super Paul-esque part of the escapade? After all my nonsense, he sat smiling as we finally departed and I babbled about what happened in the bathroom with the purse, the buttons. And of course, he saw my gymnastics as I struggled to get into the car…laughing and crying throughout. His lone query? ”Um….so I get it…but why is it that you bought jeans that don’t fit?”
Great question! See? I married the smartest man on the planet. Yes. Buy a bigger size. Simple. My reply? “How long will this road trip be – we’re just running errands but if you wanna do a cross country expedition I can unpack that question for you. It will involve my aunts, my mom, eating issues, vanity sizing, bizarre ways to stretch non-stretch jeans to break in new Levi’s. I’m almost there – just a few more torture wears!”
Truth? It might be a while before I do something so stupid and silly again. The new Levi’s can hang out in my closet for a while and make friends with the black turtlenecks. I’ll be back for them sometime, but I’ve learned a lesson about cross-body bags and button fly jeans. Oh yes…and another lesson in learning to love my ‘crack myself up’ moments.
Vicki 🥰
Victoria Ponders 
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