Horror Stories From the Changing Room

Last week in an attempt to not freeze to death I decided that I should buy clothes. My two shirts and one pair of black trousers needed a companion. On top I thought that I might be able to find new leggings for when I am home, or when I wash my trousers. So with the little bit of optimism I could find I set off to a store. 

This sounds far less heroic than it felt, Shopping for clothes is tragic: At first you have to find something that you like. Then it has to close where you want it to. Preferably above your knees but I also hate anything that closes near my navel. It feels like someone is trying to choke me to death! Never. Furthermore, I had always wanted maroon coloured trousers for work, and I prefer skinny jeans. Imagine the hopefulness on my face when I saw a pair!

a label 
Hmm, I thought as I inspected the label. It was not a label that made any sense to me. In a way to fight myself through confusing labels I took a photo of my current jeans. It tells you the height of your jeans, and your waist - I think. In a way this makes perfect sense.
Mind you, normally the Hellish Label of the maroon trousers would make sense. It followed the classic 34 - 36 - 38 - 40 - 42 scale. But I haven't had any trousers measured like that in ages. In good faith I picked 38 because that's my size with shirts. Most importantly it was the only pair they had left.

Bravely I went on search for the changing rooms, closed the Curtain Of Doom, and suspiciously eyed the pair of skinny jeans.
It even said super skinny, which I translate as ...  how dare you have legs.

Taking a deep breath I slipped out of my well known jeans. Then I sent a prayer to the sky hoping that no perv peeks into my cabin while I slipped into the new pair of jeans.

Well, slipped ... you know when the jeans are around your knees and you already start to wonder if they will even reach your arse? I did wonder. But they did reach my arse. I could even close it without chocking myself. Go me!
I must admit that they looked very nice, and were exactly the colour I had always dreamed of. I hated them!

The Jeans of Doom
Being inside them felt horrible. I was afraid that would I even dare to bend over everyone would learn what colour my underwear is, or if I like going commando. Soon the devastating sound of fabric ripping would ring through the whole shop. But hey, at least my thighs would get fresh air. When I'd hint at sitting down I could already feel my legs faint because no blood would get to them. I wanted to use them for work, and I mostly sit at work! They had to go. Peeling out of the jeans with the help of my Swiss pocketknife, I put on my good old and trusted pair.

Defeated I went back and put them on the pile. But then finally, I saw a light at the end of the tunnel - no, not that way - and spotted a shirt with aeroplanes on it. I may throw up in real ones but I squeaked when I saw that one. The day was saved after all!

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