[caption id="attachment_1656" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Photo by Aleksandra P."][/caption]By Judythe A. Guarnera I took a speech class at City College when I was in my 40’s. All the students in the class appeared to be in their teens or early twenties. I wanted to tell a funny story, but wasn’t sure if what I saw as funny would connect with these young people and make them laugh. Appreciation of humor seems so generational. Perplexed as to what topic I should choose, an incident provided the fodder for what I hoped would be my funny story. I was not one of those women who had to have a regular fix of shopping on a regular basis. I usually succumbed when my clothing needs had reached a critical mass (or lack, thereof). The day my last good pair of jeans split at the seams when I bent over, I knew that I had reached that point. My favorite style pants were bell bottoms because throughout my whole life, muscle and joint pain has plagued my existence. Their wide legs suited my inflexibility. So, I thought, no big deal, I’d just go back to the same store where I had purchased that comfortable pair of bell bottoms. To my dismay, changing styles had taken jeans from the wide and comfortable (the sublime) to the narrow and fitted (the ridiculous.) My first look told me that the jeans were all the same basic style. I pulled two pair, different sizes, off the racks —two sizes, because, as the young mother of four children, the size I wore varied by style and sometimes by how much chocolate I had consumed in the last month or so. In the dressing room I slid my shoes off, slipped out of my skirt, and stepped into the first pair of pants. They were barely over my ankles when they refused to go any further. Since I consider myself a realist, I knew I had about as much a chance of reaching the end goal of buttoning them around my waist as I did of being the first woman astronaut on the moon. I managed to get the pants off without too much difficulty, since they had rebelled at the beginning of their journey. The second larger pair made it past my ankles with ease. Encouraged, I straightened up so that I could work them the rest of the way up my legs. Ah, this is more like it. My relief was short-lived as each inch the pants navigated the unfamiliar terrain of my body where they encountered more and more resistance. Tug, tug, and finally, they slid over my hips. I made it, I crowed. Once more, my smugness proved premature. Although I tugged some more, I couldn’t get the gap between the sides of the zipper close enough to zip. I took in a mighty breath, sucked in my stomach to the point of pain, and the zipper closed smoothly. I brought the two sides of the snap together and I was in. I let out my breath. Everything stayed in place. I began to turn in front of the mirror to admire my profile. Not bad. Four kids and I still look good in a pair of jeans.I can do this. I just need to do everything in reverse. I took another deep breath and sucked in my stomach again. I wouldn’t say the pants slid down, but I was able to wiggle them down past my tummy and hips. Little did I realize that the battle had just begun. The material had bunched around my calves and would go no further. As I tried to bend over and tug the pant legs from the bottom, my leg began to cramp; that put a halt to my efforts for a few uncomfortable minutes. Okay, time to try again. I can do this. My little pep talk seemed to be working and I pushed them a little further down my legs. Once more progress halted. Trapped again. I tried to balance on one foot and reach down to pull the jeans off the other one, which resulted in a foot cramp this time. By then I was dancing/hobbling on one foot, trying to get the raised foot flat onto the floor to relieve the cramp. If you have ever struggled with panty hose, which capture your two feet about six inches away from each other as you try to work them up your leg, you can imagine how ineffective my efforts were. Still cramping, I lost my balance and thudded to the floor. I discovered that when your feet are stuck in your pants, you can’t fall gracefully. So, you thud. As I lay on the floor, moaning in pain, the cramp gradually eased. I sat up and managed to tug the pants off one foot and then the other, all the while hoping that no one had heard the thud. Did I buy those pants? They did fit and they did look good, but was I willing to go through that kind of a struggle each time I wore them? And what if they shrank and got even tighter? Should I try a larger size which might be easier to get on and off, but wouldn’t look good when they stretched and sagged? By then, thoroughly humiliated and depressed, I donned my skirt, hung the offenders back on the rack, and slunk out of the store. I think I’ ll just wait until the styles change again. After all, nothing in life is certain except death, taxes, and changing styles. The jeans had won; they were in control. Case closed. P.S. I got an “A” on my speech because my young classmates were rolling on the floor laughing the whole time I was talking. (They should laugh; they have to lie on the bed or the floor to get their jeans up.)