Next Comes the Girdle.

So I really needed black slacks. And Internet, I can assure you, not in the "I need a fourth pair of black slacks, this time with more hem" kind of way, in the "my ass will fall off from cold if I don't start wearing pants and there are only so many ways you can spice up jeans" kind of way.

Now I'm usually a time wasting kind of shopper. I can easily spend the day perusing every store in the mall (and snickering at the kids in Hot Topic, because they don't get nearly enough of that from their peers in high school). But, this usual capitalistic time suck goes on the back burner when the weather drops abruptly from a shvitsy 88 degrees to a foreboding 66 and I feel a bit like the ill fated grass hopper that sang all summer.

So I'm on a mission. And since my small town is catered mostly to college girls exploring the wonders of pairing Ugg Boots with an Abercrombie denim belt/skirt, I decided to skip the inevitable hit to my self esteem and headed straight to the Ralph Lauren outlet.

And the beauty of outlet shopping is such that you feel like an expert deal finder and also a little like a tomb robber too. Because all the lovely clothes, that in another life were put on lovely shelves with potpourri or something, are now flung like fallen civil war soldiers. One is left to pick through them while remaining sensitive to their degradation, which does not lend itself to leisurely shopping. Instead its a smash and grab job, taking everything you think might squeeze over your ass and eyeing the other shoppers suspiciously lest they swoop in and steal your bargain.

So here I am, sharing a dressing room with an orgy of black pants and cursing any calorie I have ever had the good sense to ingest. Nothing is fitting well. And then it hits me. I am no longer in a place where the purpose of pants is to show a flirty scrap of sheer lace to entice the less fair of the sexes. Their primary function now is to keep my legs warm which is tragically less exciting. And I do feel ridiculous lamenting days past in which i would have liked something that sat half a foot below my navel (aka, a mere breath away from my naughty bits), but man, the other kind were way more fun.

And I hate to wax philosophical on a Wednesday afternoon, but is this all just an allegory for myself? I'm trading in the flirty and exciting for the sensible and respectable? And if so, how goddam depressing that I find my life comparable to a pair of discounted pants?