I am sitting in a fitting room with Lady J who is trying on pair of pants after pair of pants in hopes that just a few of them will “feel as good and comfy” as she wants, and hoping that this will end the morning battle of getting dressed. We have been here for no less than 45 eternal minutes.
Despite my knowledge of whether or not the clothes actually fit, I am keeping my opinion to myself and only asking her, “Do they FEEL right?” It is excruciatingly torturous.
Of the 23 pairs, only 3 are just right for Goldilocks. We go back to the store floor for more sizes and styles…
After another funtabulous round in the dressing room we find only 2 styles that work. They are too short, just barely reaching her ankles. Yet they hug her miniature waist line without those godforsaken buttons that usually need to be adjusted to the last loop, thus creating enormously uncomfortable bunching.
She claims her boots will cover the length issue, a valid argument, so I give in, knowing her ankles will be cold on gym days.
We return to the display and choose a rainbow array of leggings and jeggings. I hope they match her tops at home, but after trying to mentally match them, I realize that I don’t care that much at this point, although I will tomorrow morning.
My only thoughts now are of my own mother and the shopping trips she endured throughout my childhood:
Mom, I love you. I’m sorry. You were right. Thank you.