Hemmed In

With the exception of the hair salon I’ve gone to for the last 8 years, I haven’t been a consistent consumer of services. I don’t always go to the same supermarket, and go for the one that’s the most convenient. I haven’t used the same dry cleaner consistently, except for the last year or so when I’ve managed to find one that comes to my house to take the dirty clothes away and bring clean ones back a few days later. I don’t often get things like massages, manicures and pedicures—but when I do, I don’t go to the same place all the time.

But I will most definitely keep going to the tailor I discovered recently. I haven’t consistently used a tailor, and have walked around with my pants either too short or too long. My recent discovery of the tailor will not only ensure that my pants are the correct length, but will also provide me with excellent blog fodder.

I went back to the tailor last week. I had bought a pair of cargo pants on clearance, but of course they were too long. (My legs are too long for the “regular” length women’s pants, but too short for the “long” length. Don’t even get me started as to why women’s clothing manufacturers don’t size their pants by the inch, like men’s clothing manufacturers do. This is something I will never ever understand.) These cargo pants fit me just right. They make my legs look long and slender. The cargo pockets on the outsides of my thighs aren’t too bulky, either. The only thing I don’t like about these pants are the front pockets, so in addition to getting them hemmed I’ve asked the tailor to sew the pockets shut.

I put the pants on, behind the curtain that doesn’t close all the way. He chalked lines where the hems will go, and then we discussed the pockets. He examined the pockets and then he proceeded to jam his hands down the front of my pants so he could pin the pockets closed. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a strange man’s hands jammed down the front of my pants… I think the last time was when Todd and I started dating. I had assumed that when I’d gotten married there wouldn’t be any more strange men jamming their hands down the front of my pants. Boy was I wrong.

It was entirely innocent. The tailor was just doing his job, and there was no funny business. Still, it was an entirely unexpected thing to have happen to me. I mean, if I am going to have a strange man jam his hands down my pants I wish he’d been about 60 years younger and better looking. I also wish he didn’t have a ridiculously obvious toupee.

On Friday I picked up my freshly hemmed pockets sewn in cargo pants. The tailor had the TV behind the counter on. Last time he was watching a Jerry Springer wanna-be, this time he was watching a nature show on PBS. Two black bears were pouncing on each other and rolling around.

“I like these shows,” the tailor gestured to the TV. “You know that bears don’t eat meat?”

“Really? I thought they liked salmon,” I replied. The tailor paused for a minute, to consider whether bears eat salmon or not.

“Maybe you’re right,” he directed his attention to the TV, the bears were still rolling around together, “But I can’t tell.  They are fighting or making love?” He watched the screen intently, waiting for the distinction to become obvious.

“I’m not sure,” I laughed. Then I mentally scanned my closet for other articles of clothing in need of alterations.