When we left our hero, ie: me, she had one pair of plaid clown pants she needed to return to the store, one pair of perfect pants that were stained with an oil or grease-like substance, and was enduring very hot weather that necessitated her wearing something other than jeans.
Luckily, the weather soon changed and jeans were perfectly serviceable once again. On mentioning her dilemma to first a friend and then her own mother-in-law, she was instructed to remove the grease stain with eucalyptus oil or Pine Sol, respectively. Loyal blog readers suggested other things: Ricki’s Miracle Pants (an ’80s cover band name if I ever heard one) and Old Navy’s jersey knit fold-over skirt, as well as maxi dresses and a store called Mark’s.
She tried the Pine Sol. It sort of worked, but would need repeat application to really be effective.
She thought about Ricki’s and Mark’s. She thought about Ricki and Mark eloping, a la Brenda and Eddie. She got distracted by nostalgia and piano solos in her head.
On Monday morning the weather turned warm again so she took her plaid clown pants and went to Metrotown, the Mall with the Most, to return the pants and look for the jersey skirt at Old Navy. Having looked at the jersey skirt at Old Navy’s website and having only found one size left for sale, she knew it might be difficult. She felt rested and up to the challenge.
First, returning the clown pants. The blonde lady in the store frowned and asked if she needed a different size. Our hero refrained from explaining that the sizing in the store was so messed up, so CHRONICALLY BUGGERED, that there was no way she would ever even try pants in that establishment again, let alone that day.
Second, a trip to the Gap to laugh at the horizontally striped maxi dresses that cost $60.
Third, Old Navy, where our hero scoured the store for forty-five minutes, a full thirty-five longer than she usually spent at Old Navy. She found small jersey dresses, large floral dresses, a pair of linen pants, t-shirts priced at $8 apiece. She tried them all. They all sucked. She dug through the clearance racks and started to go mildly insane listening to the vaguely dance-like pop music, but she did not find the jersey skirt. Resigned to failure, she was making small talk with the fitting room attendant when she spied it, in the attendant’s hand. A black, a-line, jersey skirt.
“That..skirt,” our hero blustered, pointing like a fool at the piece of fabric on the hanger.
“Oh?” said the attendant, who was short of stature but wise of nature. “This? It’s a maternity skirt.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” said our hero, nodding, flushing with excitement. “That’s THE SKIRT I want.”
“Well come with me and I will show you where I got it,” said the attendant. “It comes in two colours. It’s very comfortable..”
Lo. Behold. In the maternity section, the only section where our hero hadn’t looked, was a rack of perfect skirts, in sizes small to XXL, in grey and black. She bought two, in size medium because she is not pregnant, merely a fan of comfortable, fold-over waistbands and the quiet swish of a skirt in warm weather.
Have the mighty fallen, or have we won? I think you know the answer.