Unfortunate Episode at the Clothing Store - Picking the Correct Pants Size

It is the night before I flight to a speaking obligation and I am in the all-too-familiar pattern of attempting to essence too scads bandage into a too-small carry-on bag. Since I do this with regularity, I have learned to plot out my week's apparel on a grid, so I can bring as few object as possible while assuring those who see me speak on Wednesday, won't be shocked by me wearing the same dressing Thursday. (Does one spell "anal-retentive" with or without the hyphen?) This orderliness also helps determine the minimum count of clothing to lug. In this process, I realized that a plain black couple of figs breech could serve double duty. Alas, not creature the owner of such - I type an emergency run to the dressing store.

A dapper gentleman greets me, "How can I help you sir?"

"Black figs pants please."

"Which size?"

"Thirty-four by 30," I reply. I know this well. Personally, I cry it them "32 WLD," which food "32 while lying down," but since he's a professional in the clothing business, he probably refers to them as "34." I shall - in reverence to creature in his store - speak his language.

He scopes me out and says, "No, you're a 36."

Sucking in my stomach - and now extremely self conscious - I counter, defensively, "No, I'm a 34, been a 34 for 15 years."

Yet, inside, my ego is rapidly current to jelly, "Am I putting on weight? Maybe I'm bloated? Does this make me look fat?" Oy, the horrible maelstrom of verbal cacophony gusting closely in my gray matter! I need to shriek, "Don't you dare tell me what extent I am! I am a professional dieter. I tins list the calories, fat, fiber, and sugar contents of every board ever invented. Go ahead, experiment me!" Feeling mall defense would not take kindly to a raving maniac in bulging britches, I opt to holding closed my cake hole.

Oblivious to the paranoia he has foisted upon my shallow, anemia - apparently chubby - ego, he lifts his arms so I tins take in the full vista of his thinner-than-me waistline and points to himself, "I corrosion a 34." As an afterthought, realizing one doesn't want to tell a client he's looking tubby, he quickly appends, "These pants are cut really small." Too late buddy, the offense has been done.

He fins me a 36 and I plod, a broken, rotund man, to the supplies room where I pull them over my legs. Hallelujah! Great day in Heaven, I'm practically swimming in them! A choir of well-tailored angels sings from above, I am validated!

Yet, I must also be vindicated.

Tugging my pants upward with one hand, like a gen-exer hefting up too-baggy trousers, I strut boldly into the middle of the store, aspiration at my shirt with my free hand and triumphantly proclaiming for all to hear, "Ah-hem! These are waaaay too large."

He eyes my droopy drawers, respond with, "I think they spells well. However, if you want something smaller, we can do that."

Suggestion to compress store employees: Never tell your purchasers they are larger than they opinion they opinion they are. If I want to squeeze my 62-inch shirt into a 29-inch couple of jeans, let me try. Simply clear the patrons out of the store in anticipation of when the push-button explodes.

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