I'm not usually one to take a bold or inappropriately lewd stance on anything — unless I'm tipsy, which is always, so let's just start all over again, shall we? (That whole sentence was my editor's fault. He's an utter moron but he makes a damn fine martini.) This photo is admittedly cheekier than my usual tasteful work, but there's a reason for that. And that reason is "combat."
I bought these camo-pattern pants at Forever 21 yesterday, bringing my camo-pattern-pants total to a new high of five. In other words I needed a new pair of camo-pattern pants like I need another martini ... *pauses expectantly* EDITOR! I SAID I NEED ANOTHER MARTINI! ... but I spied them on a rack in the changeroom and loved them on sight.
"Is someone trying those on or are they up for grabs?" I asked the salesclerk.
"I guess they're up for grabs," she said. "The other girl said they were too tight."
So I tried them on and they fit like a camo-pattern glove. I was still twirling in front of the mirror when the salesclerk knocked on the door.
"Uhm, that girl wants to try those pants on again," she said.
"Well she's going to have to come and peel them off of me," I retorted. "They're mine now."
The salesclerk frowned. "Sorry," she said firmly.
"But I thought they didn't fit her fat ass!" I squawked.
"Ma'am? The pants?"
"Fine," I huffed as I slid them off and handed them over, "but can you grab me another pair please?" And that's when she told me they were the only size 28 left. I tell you, hand to God, had I known that while I still had them on she would never have taken them alive.
And now that I knew I couldn't have them, I wanted them even more. So I lingered in the changeroom, hoping Kim Kardashian would realize my pants and her arse were a bad match and give them back to their rightful owner.
The salesclerk saw me hovering and arched a brow.
"Has she made a decision?" I asked.
"She hasn't come out yet," she replied coolly.
"Huh," I said. "I'll just wait a few more minutes then ..."
"Whatever," the salesclerk said, and began examining her nails in that "I'm ignoring you" way.
I hovered a few moments longer ... I mean, really, how long does it take to try on a pair of pants? ... until even I could tell it was getting weird, and then finally, I gave up.
I flounced out of the store in a huff, vowing to call head office and complain about the shoddy service, wondering when another shipment of those pants might come in, on and on and obsessively on and then, finally, a glimmer of sanity: perhaps I could just try another Forever 21 store. The goddam things are everywhere.
So I drove to Mississauga's Square One, found a Forever 21, found a pair of size 28 camo-pattern pants and made a beeline for the checkout.
"Would you like to try those on?" a salesclerk asked.
"Ha!" I barked, breaking into a run, "you think I'm gonna fall for that one?"
So yes, the acquisition of these camo pants turned into a huge flipping ordeal that vastly outweighed their paltry $30 pricetag and yes, I am feeling a bit combative and guerrilla-chick about them, so when you look at this photo I hope you see the battle-scarred tenacity and courage and triumph it embodies. Or maybe you just see a gratuitous photo of my arse. At this point, I really don't care. I have the pants: I won the war.
EDITOR'S NOTE: All this for a pair of $30 pants? They'll probably fall apart the first time you wash them!
MY NOTE: I'll thank you to salute when you address me.