After a day of shopping with her husband, Mary Margaret’s late-night email was an alcohol-fueled vent. Her unedited revelation follows:
I know for certain that God is a man. Only a man would cause the aging male butt to vanish and increase a woman’s the size of an SUV.
My husband brought me his ancient blue jeans and wanted to know if I could alter them so they would fit. Forget cosmetic surgery. Those jeans require burial. The waist sags and there are two yards of extra fabric covering a formerly cute butt. In addition to a disappearing hiney,
he must be going blind how can he fail to notice his six-pack morphed into a full keg that dangles over his knees. There is no way any type of acceptable resolution can come from this situation. There is not enough vodka in the world to prepare me for telling him his is butt is history.
If I survive explaining testosterone-be-gone, there remains the delicate task of explaining costs. We have to make concessions to overcome Father Nature’s cruel tricks and
solutions apparel solutions, as every woman knows, can be pricey. In the land before time Years ago he wore slim cut, off the rack jeans. The man has no clue that sizes are a toss up these days. A thirty-three waist may be too big or too small, especially if one is dumb enough chooses to shop for apparel at Big Lots.
I devoted an entire afternoon to fetching and retrieving jeans while he screamed from the dressing room, “they don’t fit”. It isn’t my fault his body is in this shape. The tailors in Bangladesh have yet to experience creating a pattern for a non-existent butt. He’s too
cheap frugal cost conscious to consider buying jeans that look nice but require a bit of tailoring to adapt them to fit his warped self-image. Noooo, he’d rather run me ragged.
I have run a marathon from the jeans racks then back to the men’s dressing room. I consider leaving him stranded in the dressing room and making a run for the parking lot.
Surely the security staff would find him when they lock the building for the night.
There is no reciprocity in this situation. He hides
like a rat when I shop; there is no way that man would run back and forth getting fifty pairs of jeans for me. Where is he when I am shopping for swimsuits?
I am done. He can adapt and wear
geezer pleated polyester khaki slacks from Walmart. If he wants to look as hot as he did twenty years ago he would consider having a n ass plasty gluteal sculpting. By my calculations, the procedure would pay for itself in tailored jeans and Xanax/Vodka in two years.
Note: Originally published January 2014
Categories: Biased, Unbalanced and Politically Incorrect
I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.