Why IS it that…some bargains come with a hefty price?

 

© Shana McLean Moore

 

With the exception of a few non-retail encounters during my college years, I’ve never considered myself to be cheap. In fact, I’m one of those customers who prides herself in being attracted to the displays at the front of the store, whether they were intended for someone of my physical and fiscal dimensions or not. The only time I wander back to the bargain basement is when I actually plan on purchasing something.

 

Again, I’m not a miser; it’s just that I want to wear my new outfit somewhere besides the dressing room. You see, unlike the fashion elite who espouse that one piece of Versace’s spring line is far superior to having ten from Targét, I operate under the premise that “more is more.”  Most of my outfits, therefore, are best described as “cheap and cheerful.” I operate this way, with my self-esteem intact, because it allows me to be guilt-free when I must replace pants that are now two inches shorter than the current trend or, ahem, two inches narrower than mine.

 

One day, after discovering that my entire wardrobe had mysteriously suffered at the hands of my dryer (okay, Dryers), someone offered me the ultimate bargain. And like a fresh tub of Jamocha Almond Fudge, there was no way for me to resist it.

There I stood on the blacktop at my daughters’ school, bemoaning my increasing girth due to back problems and the accompanying horizontal lifestyle. I explained to my girlfriends that after two months of burning somewhere between three and seven calories per day while consoling myself with sundaes, the math had finally caught up with me.

 

And the proof was in my pants.

 

With passionate detail, I explained to the ladies the story of a romance more tragic than any of Shakespeare.

 

“It was spring, and love was in the air. I had found a style of pants that were relatively hip, and fit over mine. Oh, glory day! Like any girl worth her gold card, I bought them in all four colors. In return for my appreciation, the pants hugged me gently, in all the right places.”

 

The ladies nodded with validation.

 

“But as fate would have it, I would only enjoy them one time each before there was no point in wearing anything but sweats. All it took was a dive for a volleyball in a way befitting neither my age nor my IQ. In an instant, our relationship, once vibrant and new, was strained. After several agonizing weeks, I finally reached a level of functional pain. I assumed this meant that my pants and I would resume our life together. But without so much as a phone call, the pants rejected me in the only way they could. I pleaded for a second chance, but we were a full two inches from reuniting.”

 

If the ladies had never experienced such a loss, their eyes told me that they could imagine such despair.

 

Just then, a willowy blonde acquaintance joined our circle. So as to protect the pride of one of their fallen sisters, my girlfriends quickly changed the subject. Once the airwaves were wide open for broadcasting, the newcomer asked in the most sincere and generous manner if any of us wore a size __ __. (I’ll leave these numbers blank to return the favor to my sisters-- we’re rather like Marines that way. Make no assumptions, either, because the first one could be a placeholder zero. Riiiiight.) Well, one quick look at our backsides as she approached the circle certainly gave her an idea she was in the right crowd.

 

She announced with enthusiasm that she’d recently discovered Pilates and had lost inches from her frame. Try as I did to be happy for her in her newly discovered form, it was difficult to watch her star rise while mine plummeted dangerously towards earth. It became a little easier when she offered up three pair of roomy pants, free-of-charge, that would virtually replace the ones that had just abandoned me. Ka-ching!

 

I pushed my pride aside and whispered to myself that these pants were just temporary. I would turn around and offer them to the next full-bottomed circle of friends on the blacktop, just as soon as I healed and severed all ties with companies ending in

-ryers.

 

A few days later, as I got ready for a night of Bunco with the girls, I zipped up my new pants and was instantly saddened. While this hand-me-down pair of pants didn’t hurt my waistline, it sure as heck hurt my feelings. I spent the evening shuffling around in a pair of cast-off fat pants that felt like anything but a bargain. While they didn’t cost me a penny of hard-earned cash, those babies cost me a mint in self-esteem.