Official Day

So, today I paid for the car. Yeah, I know I said I bought it on Friday, and technically I did - I told the dude that I would buy it on Friday, and today was the only good day to get together and pay for it. So for you finicky detailers (which I believe is most of you) I paid for the car today. I bought insurance today. I own a car physically right now. Mine. Yay.

In other news:

Went and saw The Proposition with the Audiophile last night. It's a western written by the eversoamazing Nick Cave. He's friggin' awesome. I highly recommend it. It is certainly intense and in some ways more graphic than I suspected (or rather more graphic than I was willing to admit it would be), and because it is shot in Australia's desert lands during CHRISTMAS, the landscape brings about latent agoraphobia. Oh, and if you don't like to see flies buzzing around peoples eyes all the time, around dead things, around just about everything... don't see this movie. Or do, just expect a lot of flies and subsequent heebee jeebees.

My favourite jeans bit the dust yesterday. A giant hole in the knee. I knew this was coming for a while and have been trying to find replacement pants, without much luck. So yesterday, I decided that I was going to purchase pants even if it were going to kill me. And with the help of The 'Phile, I told myself that it didn't matter what size the pants were, just as long as they fit.

See, I have a lovely figure. I really do. But I am also a lot more 'hippy' (not hippie, although I am that too [funny for a cowgirl...], and I am not PEAR shaped. If you believe that, you are fucked up. I have that 'ratio' or whatever it's called. So, no. No pears here.) than what seems to be the trend. I have an ass, not giant, but substantial white girl ghetto booty. And since this trend of no ass (but a lot of paunch... this is true, and somewhat disturbing to me) and no hips, and with all these 3 inch zipper pants for different (yeah right) body types has come to be, the sizing issue has become, well, an issue.

Example.
I go to Mavi Jeans in Yaletown. I find a lovely pair of jeans. I pick out a 30/32 (what? No 30/30's? What everyone has no hips and are amazons?). I pick a 30 because I know better. I can accept it. Oh, pretty lovely jeans here too, and a different style! But no 30's. Well let's try a 29. I mean that is what I normally wear, so why not.

Into the change room I go. Voila. The 29/32's? They finally get themselves around and part way over my ass, and the button and the 'eye' are so far apart that they need to make long distant phone calls to each other, my ass crack plus 80% of my knickers are hanging out; I don't even need to bend over to give the ol' peek of the slot; but gosh, they do have nice lines if you squint real hard.

Second pair. Now my lovely pair of Mavis you are the 30/30's. I pull you up and over my ass appendage. The button and the eye meet nicely for tea. Zip up and wow. These are quite nice. But a little baggy in the upper thigh. And they make me look like I have a penis. Well, sort of. It looks like I have a hard on. Then I adjust them and they don't seem to be too bad. The 'Phile meanwhile wants to see. So I come out in the penis pants and have the slot machine ones in my hand. I show him the zipper on the slots and he starts to laugh. 'I guess these ones didn't work, hey?' he said to me. Precisely. I instruct however, that I would like to try on these same slot machine pants but in a *gasp* 31. I knew the 30's would just make me need to go to the 31's so why not just jump right into it.

Third Pair, sister to the First. I try them on. Gasp. They fit. I come out. I feel pretty, but weird. I hear this woman crowing about how she could fit into a 32. I look over. She's about 4 sizes too big. She tried on about a dozen pairs of pants and none of them fit her. She was so hell bent on finding a 32 that fit her, when clearly that was never going to happen, at least not today. Then I felt bad. I wish that numbers didn't mean anything. I wish that we didn't allow the size to determine whether or not we were beautiful. So I turn to the mirror and I like what I see. 'Fuck it. I don't even care, I'll cut the tags out if I have to.'

The 'Phile thinks the bottoms of the Third Pair are too wide. I look. I agree. Then he spots a similar pair like the ones I've got on and says try these on. They have a narrower leg. So I grab the 31's and run off into the change room.

I pull the 31's off. Pull up the Fourth Pair. Different style. Different...holy shit! I do them up and turn around.

The waist was so large that they exposed the same amount of ass as the first ones. This is fucked up. I run out to find a 30. None. 29? I sigh. Okay. Maybe. Sure. Run back. Try them on...

YAY! They fit, they look awesome but wait a minute. I try on 5 pairs of pants. All of them different sizes. Similiar styles, and yet a difference between 3 inches? This basically has instilled in me that size DOES NOT MATTER. In one day I was 3 different sizes. In the same store. WTF.

I bought them, and they are nice.