Buy them in bulk
When you find pants that fit you perfectly – the pair that turns your derriere into the Holy Grail of asses – the pair that makes your ankles look edible – those pants – you buy those in bulk. Retro style cigarette pants. Just above the ankle. Audrey Hepburnesque. My version of the cigarette pant is a cropped pant – a little north of being ‘floods.’ NOT a capri. They aren’t wide all the way down, they’re not skinny all the way down. Tight where they should be tight with space around the bottom of your leg. My ass and ankles are made for these pants.
If I catch sight of a pair of cigarette pants in a mod print – I’m lost. I spotted a pair at Mark’s Work Warehouse and I could barely keep it together. We were shopping – David needed new chinos that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. While he was looking for squooshy socks to go with his new chinos, I caught a gimpse of these cigarette pants. Black, blue and white. Kitschy and beautiful. I might have run across the store to caress them. I tried them on, and though the only pair even remotely close to my size range was a titch too large – I didn’t care – I had to buy them. It was essential.
A week later, my admiration for these pants had grown, even though I realized that the size I’d bought just wasn’t going to stay on, no matter how much I loved the pattern. Possibly the first time in my life I’d ever had that problem. I had to go back to stock up in the right size. As a child, I never understood why the Sears catalogue offered one thing in about a gazillion colours. As an adult – it has become clear to me that if you fall in love with how a certain pair of pants makes your ass and ankles look, you want them in every shade available.
So, wearing my too-large pair of pants, we went back to Mark’s Work Warehouse – I ran over to the cigarette pant table and picked out four more pairs, in the right size – they even had the pair I was wearing in the smaller size. I went over to the cash and plunked them down.
“Stocking up?” the cashier asked.
“Yep. I love these ones so much, I’m going to get them all in the size down.” I stepped back from the counter to show my too-large pants. “These ones, it turns out, are bit too roomy in the waist. ” I felt a little embarassed even mentioning it – like I shouldn’t revel in the fact that my body was trimmer than I’d supposed.
“We can do an exchange for you right now if you like.”
“I’m sorry…?”
“We can do an exchange between the pair you’re wearing and the pair you’re buying – so you’ll save a bit of money.”
“Oh, but I don’t have the receipt with me. And I’m… we’ll… I’m WEARING them right now.”
“Not a problem. You bought them here?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Not a problem… You can just take these ones,” she cut the tags off the new size and handed them to me. “Go change in the changing room and bring back the old ones.”
“Seriously?””
“Yep.”
That? That right there? Will have me shopping at Mark’s Work Warehouse for the rest of my life. Even if it’s just for tank tops for me and socks for David – they have my loyalty FOREVER. I was wearing the other pants and they took them back even though I’d bought the wrong size. And now ankles look like this:
