June 24, 2008 Issue

Laughing Matters
by Pepper James

I spend a lot of weekends with my family on the 40-foot pontoon boat my sister and her husband purchased last summer. With kids, significant others, in-laws and outlaws—yes, there is usually an ex-husband or two in tow—we number close to 20, so the size of the boat is not only convenient but necessary. During an unusually full day on the boat this past weekend, my daughter casually informed me that everyone could see through the seat of my swimsuit.

“You mean, it’s thin or…?”

“No, you can see completely through it.”

“You can see what through it?”

“Everything.”

“Like my…”

“Yes, and your…”

“What?! Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?!”

I spent the remainder of the day wrapped up in a beach towel, careful not to reveal myself any further to my father, brother-in-law, nephews, son-in-law, ex-husband, boyfriend, fake father-in-law (that would be my sister’s husband’s father), and daughter’s boyfriend. When I got home, I threw the swimsuit in the garbage and vowed to go shopping.

With another big boating weekend looming ahead, I knew there wasn’t much time, so I tricked my sister into a shopping trip, promising to join her for a pedicure (her favorite thing). I have to trick her because shopping is not as easy as it once was. As we get older, things happen to us. Things beyond our control. Things get bigger, wider, longer, droopier, things—well, things just happen. I generally force myself to go shopping for new clothes once a year out of necessity. Now, with my sad old purple swimsuit crumbled up in the garbage can, it was again a necessity, and I didn’t want to go through the experience alone.

Let me first say that I have no misconceptions about my shape and size. I know full well what size I wear and which department I should be shopping in. The fact that I choose to maybe try a size or two smaller in the hopes that I’m wrong about that is natural, right? The helpful Asian saleslady at Dillard’s didn’t seem to think so.

“She no eight!” she exclaimed.

“I know she’s not an eight,” my sister replied pleasantly. “But just for fun, let’s try some eights. But be sure they say stretch on the label, okay?”

Sighing, Miss Dilliard’s—as we fondly called her—left. She returned with a pile of lightweight Capris and silky tops. My sister flipped through them as I stood in the dressing room trying on items I’d already gathered. “No, no, no, no, yes, this might work, no no… Here you go, you can put those back, they won’t work. Look for stretch on the label and we’ll have better luck.” Miss Dilliard’s left again, returning quickly with more clothes. “No, no, yes, yes, no, no, no… Here you go. Do you have any more that say stretch?”

“Sister, how are you doing in there?’

I wasn’t ready to admit I needed a larger size. “Um, no, this one is too…long. I don’t like the color of this one. And these sleeves are weird…but this might work.”

“Let me see.”

I opened the door.

“Huh,” she said, eyeing my stuffed, sausage-like appearance. “Interesting. I like the pants, but let me bring you a larger top. Maybe we can hide that roll.”

“Roll? What roll?” I asked, peering in the mirror. “Oh, yeah. That roll.”

Suffice it to say, it wasn’t long until I had to admit we needed to go up a few sizes and it probably would be best to shop in the women’s department versus the juniors department. And although it was frustrating holding something up the size of a tent and still not being able to zip the thing, or trying on knee-length Capris that go down to your ankles in order to accommodate the size of your behind, and finding out that even if something says stretch it may not be able to stretch enough, the ultimate humiliation always comes when you get that one dress pulled down over your plentiful hips only to find you can’t get it off.

There’s nothing more mortifying than wrestling around in a small dressing room with your sister outside the door asking if you need help. “Nnnjkkkkilkjklkk,” I replied through the fabric wrapped around my face.

“Can you open the door?”

“Nmkkjlkjkjkkl.”

I did eventually work it all out, escaping from the dress and the dressing room with a decent sized pile of clothes, including a new swimsuit. At the cash register, Miss Dilliard’s patted herself on the back repeatedly over her skill in picking out just the right clothes in just the right size and color. In a wild five-minute flurry at the end, I dashed through the racks grabbing several additional blouses to go with the pants that did fit, refusing to try them on because this had gone on way too long and besides, I most certainly know what fits now, after all of this.

But the best part of the day was when my sister, relieved that the ordeal was finally over, made me pay up with that promised pedicure, where thankfully the foot bowl is always One Size Fits All.

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