IN PRAISE OF YOGA PANTS

With all the serious issues in the world today, why am I writing about pants? Maybe it’s frivolous, but my lifelong search for comfortable, well-fitting pants has finally come to an end. Throughout my life, I have sought two things: shoes that look good and in which I can walk … and perfectly fitted slacks I can throw into the washer and dryer.

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My feet are happy since discovering Uggs for winter, FitFlop clogs, and Clark’s sandals for warm weather. Perfect pants eluded me. Jeans, the iconic garment of my generation, look better than they feel. As soon as I sit, they pull down in the back, ride up in the front, and dig into my waistline all the way around. The better they look standing, the more uncomfortable they are sitting. Stretch denim improves the comfort factor, but my body has never been shaped right for jeans. I’ve been thin, not-so-thin, fat, and all sizes in between. Never found a pair which fit quite right.

Too loose or tight, waist too high or low enough to slide off my hips. I could wear a belt, but I hate belts. Add them to brassieres with steel bones for garment-based misery. Complete the picture with spike heels and a thong and you have head-to-toe discomfort.

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I can’t be happy if I’m uncomfortable. If my shoes pinch, if underwear is up my butt, the waistband of the jeans is sawing its way through my mid-section, I’m not going to be my scintillating self. I will twitch, pull, and rearrange garments in a never-ending and increasingly desperate attempt to get comfortable. Eventually, I will look as if I have a weird nervous disorder.

red fitflop clogs

Some years back, an end of season clearance on Land’s End featured yoga pants. I’ve owned stretch pants. They’re okay, but never looked quite right. But yoga pants. From the moment I slid into them, I knew I’d found it. Boot cut, so my short legs appear long and graceful. Forgiving fabric which stretches every which way, but bounces back to its original shape without a saggy butt or droopy knees. They wash like a dream, have no issues with the dryer.

Gradually, I stopped wearing anything else. My size hasn’t changed in years, so I have a lot of clothing, much more than I need. All of it fits.

Fortune has smiled on me. My best friend and I wear exactly the same size, right down to shoes. When my wardrobe threatens to explode, I can pass the goodies to the one person on earth I know will appreciate and like them. Did I mention we also have the same taste?

I need to visit her very soon.

Yesterday, I slipped into jeans. They fit well, even a bit loose. I wore them for almost two hours before I changed back into yoga pants. I guess there’s no turning back. Yoga pants forever.

WHEN THE MACHINES WENT DOWN

Dateline: Uxbridge, Massachusetts 

It was an ordinary day. A sunny day in southern New England. Cool. Almost crisp. The leaves had changed and shone bright yellow and orange. Autumn. The best time of the year.

An ordinary day. Except, we ran out of half-and-half.

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In most homes, this would have been no big deal. It would surely not have been an emergency requiring an immediate trip to town. But in this household of addicted coffee drinkers, no way we could get through 24 hours without half-and-half for our coffee. Someone — okay, Garry — would have to buy half-and-half.

The nearest shop only sells tiny containers and sometimes, has none at all. So it was off to Hannaford’s.

Hannaford’s is our grocery store. We don’t own it (I wish), but it’s the one we patronize. Not big or fancy. Even for Uxbridge, it’s a modest store, but that’s one of the reasons we like it. It’s part of a small Maine-based chain. Prices are pretty good and the produce is usually fresh. They offer locally grown products in season. You don’t need a special card to get discounts and they offer a 5% discount to Senior Citizens every Tuesday. Most important, they are close to home, easy to get to, and have ample parking.

I was in the middle of a book — I usually am — so I didn’t pay a lot of attention as Garry went out. Not a big deal. Just half-and-half. Maybe pick up something for dinner. He came back a couple of hours later, a bit longer than an errand like this should take. Garry looked amused. Maybe bemused.

“There is shock and confusion in downtown Uxbridge, today,” he announced.

“Shock and confusion?”

“Yes,” Garry said. “I thought it might be delayed PTSD from 9/11 or changing seasons. Everyone in Hannaford’s looked stunned.”

“Stunned? Because?” I questioned.

“The credit card readers were down. You couldn’t pay with your bank or credit card. Everyone had to pay cash or use a check. They looked shell-shocked. Thousand-yard stares. Stumbling, vacant-eyed around the store.”

“Holy mackerel,” I said. “I can only imagine.”

“You could see them mumbling to themselves. They kept saying ‘cash!’ I could tell they were confused and unsure what to do.”

“Wow,” I said. “How dreadful! What did you do?” I asked. Garry seemed to have survived with his sense of humor intact and brought home the half-and-half.

“Oh, I paid with cash. I had enough on me.”

He went off to the kitchen chuckling to himself. I hoped everyone would be okay back in town. A shock like that can haunt people for a long time. Cash. Imagine that. Everyone will be talking about this for weeks.

The day the machines went down at Hannaford’s. That’s huge.


Weekly Writing Challenge: LOCAL FLAVOR

A PLEA FROM THE WOMAN WITH THE VISA

Marilyn Armstrong:

Ah, the holidays. Oh the joys of shopping. All I can say is ‘THANK YOU ONLINE WORLD” because I no longer need to go to the mall for my holiday shopping. It gets delivered to my door and usually, it’s on time and in the same number of pieces it started out its journey. Sometimes, change is good.

Originally posted on Stuff my dog taught me:

imagesDEAR TRENDY CLOTHING STORE EMPLOYEE:

I know that everything in your store has been designed to fit and flatter my teenage daughters and that my presence is an unappreciated reminder that you will all someday sacrifice beauty for comfortable footwear.  However, as the woman with the VISA, I have no choice but to lurk around the racks and there will be occasions when verbal communication between you and I will be unavoidable.

To reduce my stress levels as well as yours I plea with you to consider lowering the music volume and perhaps turning up the lighting.  I could potentially lip read over the pounding, highly-synthesized rhythm, if only there was enough light for me to make out your facial features.  Alternatively, I could have my children verbally guide me through the store if I could make out their voices over the dance-party “mash up” that is playing at a stadium-concert…

View original 450 more words

DO YOU COME HERE OFTEN?

Greetings, Stranger 

I’m sitting at a café when a stranger approaches me. He asks my name. “Marilyn,” I answer.

The stranger nods, “I’ve been looking for you.”

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I gaze into his soft, brown eyes “Well,” I reply, with a hint of teasing, “I’ve been looking for you, too. Do you come here often?”

“Not nearly often enough, it would seem,” he says, juggling the bags he’s carrying. He pulls me to my feet and loops an arm through mine. “I think there’s a burger joint over there. I’m hungry. How about you?”

As I rise to my feet, he continues: “You were supposed to meet me by Kohl’s. Where were you?”

I organize my own packages. “I’ll never tell you. You’ll have to kill me first.”

Garry and I go hand in hand through the crowded mall. He says: “I hate shopping this close to Christmas. It’s a madhouse.”

“I know,” I respond, giving his hand a squeeze. “But it’s worth it  … because I get to meet such a handsome stranger.”

CLEARANCE TIME AGAIN

It’s final clearance sale time. It may be the middle of summer according to the calendar, but in retail, summer’s over. Time to clear out and make room for the new fall fashions. Which is why I’m wearing my new orange dress from J. Jill.

Given my druthers, my entire wardrobe would be neutral. Dark, preferably black. Orange makes me feel as if I’m wearing a neon sign, though Garry thinks it looks cute. Not that he would ever wear this color. He’s even more New York than I am. His favorite color is (wait for it) … gray.

When I said I can’t go out in public in anything this bright, Garry said “This is Uxbridge.”

Uxbridge. On the way to the grocery store, we spotted her. A lovely, plump young thing. Wearing very short, tight, purple spandex shorts. With an over-sized bright yellow tee-shirt. Large bouncing breasts and obviously, no bra. But the thing that brought it all together, that made her larger than life, was her long, electric-blue hair.

She was walking while texting, the epitome of fashion in Our Town. Garry and I discussed the possibility she didn’t own a mirror, but decided she probably thought she looked really cool. I suppose that’s why Garry thinks an orange tee dress is no big deal.

The two colors you can always get at clearance sales are orange and purple.

purple and orange sweaters

End of the season shopping provides a limited choice of colors. Purple, orange. Beige. Ghostly white and unhealthy green. Also special colors which were supposed to be hot but weren’t. Named after food, you’ll find cantaloupe, mango, kiwi, aubergine, honeydew, sugarplum, pumpkin, mocha, and vanilla bean. In other words, purple, beige, and orange. Renaming does not a fashion trend make.

I shopped final sales and closeouts long before I was strapped for cash. It’s tradition. My mother raised me to hold fast to one unyielding principle: “Never pay full price.

You aren’t supposed to brag about how much you pay. You’re supposed to brag about how much you didn’t pay. The less you pay, the greater your bragging rights. I was astonished to discover some people are proud of paying a lot when they could have gotten for half off if they’d waited a couple of days. They might have had to get it in purple or orange, but think of the money they’d save!

Would I have different attitude towards shopping if I were richer? I don’t think so. To put it in perspective, in the early 1990s, I got into a tug of war with Carly Simon for possession of a 70% off final clearance silk blouse in a chi-chi shop in Oak Bluffs on Martha’s Vineyard. Neither of us was poor. It was principal. It was orange. I won. It was a fantastic blouse.

Bargain hunting is not just for people on a tight budget. For some of us, it’s a contact sport. Somewhere in the ether, Mom is smiling proudly.

IT’S YOUR FAULT. YES, YOU!

Sleepy Time – More and more of us go to bed too late because of sleep procrastination. What are the nighttime rituals that keep you up before finally dozing off?


I blame you, WordPress. Until I started blogging, I’d go to bed, read a bit, then clutch my pillow and be off to dreamland for a few restless, miserable hours. Now, I have to check (and recheck) my blog. See how today’s offerings look on three differently formatted devices (tablet, Kindle, small computer). Find the typos. There are always typos because I am The Typo Queen and no one can put more typos in a small post than I can. If typos could be made an Olympic event, I would have a gold medal — but I digress. What was I talking about?

Oh. Sleep. The whole “bedtime procrastination” thing. I don’t think we could be classified as a bedtime procrastinators because we have no schedule. As retirees, we rarely need to get up at a particular time. Unless there’s something on the calendar. The only other thing remotely time-sensitive is trying to shop for groceries on Tuesday when the supermarket gives its senior discount.

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Personally, I think they should give us a discount every day. Tuesday is a mess of scooters, walkers, and bewildered people trying to remember why they are in the bread aisle and if they are lost or truly need bread. And where’s the list? They can’t find their money at checkout and are frequently confused as to where they left the car. Since we aren’t that far behind them, mentally speaking, we wait patiently as they work their way through the equation of life. Soon that could be us. I’m willing to bet this is unrelated to the hour at which they went to bed.

Hopefully, we won’t be stuck behind them as we exit the parking lot. They drive so slowly. If we had a manual transmission, we’d never make it out of first. They have to compete with the other slow, bad drivers who are decades younger. The younger folks can’t drive because they are too busy. Texting, talking on the phone, adjusting radios, yelling at kids (husband, dogs, themselves) while swerving all over the road.

It’s a nightmare out there and it has nothing to do with getting enough sleep, although it is possible that some of the slowest drivers are taking a nap, don’t realize they are at the wheel of a car and supposed to be moving.

Have I forgotten anything? Where’s my list?

DOWNTOWN HYANNIS

There’s downtown … and then there’s downtown in Hyannis on Cape Cod. Welcome to Main Street. A little bit of shopping, a snack at a sidewalk café on a warm, bright day.