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I have a good friend, named Margie, who wears nice clothes and mostly very tight jeans and slacks. She has a great figure, so she can do stuff like that.

Over the years, I’ve witnessed Margie counselling, telephonically, on one knee, and it was explained to me that it eases the pressure of the tight jeans. As I don’t often wear quite such tight jeans, I couldn’t always relate, though I loved the concept of being on one knee and so on. And she looks perfectly comfortable when seated, e.g. around a table having lunch, so I assumed that this was all fine.

Those who know me well, well, those who know me, know that I’m a serious clothes person, very fashion conscious, etc.. Yesterday, as all my jeans were in the wash (read: one “good pair” and a couple of “not good” pairs) I had ran out of clothes. I couldn’t go to the warehouse in my pyjamas, which in any event aren’t even MY pyjamas – but that is subject of another e-mail – nor could I go to lunch in my pyjamas, so I dug out an old-ish pair of black jeans. They were tight when I bought them and have become a tad tighter now that my thyroid has been misbehaving as much as it has. But anyway, I put on the jeans and found that I could breathe, no problem, as long as I didn’t attempt to do it too often.

I also found that I was fine while walking, or standing, and even while sitting in front of the computer working – the latter is never one long sitting scenario, as I make a point of getting up to move around a bit, and get water, and play with Nanuk, and go into the garden, etc. So I was fine. I was even fine when driving to the warehouse (20 minutes), and then to Randburg and then to Sandton City – each little jaunt was approx. 20 minutes, so I wasn’t sitting for too long and everything was fine.

And then I went to lunch. The place was great and the food was great and the company was great, but the chairs weren’t immensely comfortable. Not normally a problem. The problem though was that the tight jeans were taking their toll on me and my little, how-shall-I-say, um, well, nookie, cookie, you know, mothertheresahavingabadhairday, whatever.

And I knew I had to make some adjustments, but WHAT adjustments? I excused myself, which I thought was very well-mannered of me, and went to the ladies, ostensibly to wash my hands, and I began trying to figure out how to adjust. I mean, does one adjust to the left, moving everything to one side, and WHAT must one adjust, or does one move everything to the right, and “everything” being …. ? or does one do a split infinitive thing, and risk having the little man in the canoe seriously assaulted by the seam of the seriously tight jeans, or what. I don’t know what I adjusted and where everything ended up but I adjusted something and I was fine. I washed my hands,
and went back to the table. And sat down.

And the little man in the canoe started howling, fairly quietly, but howling nevertheless. And when jeans are so tight, I tell you, no amount of wriggling and moving about helps. It’s like there’s a conspiracy between Superglue and the seam of the tight jeans. They just get in there, boy, in a place that hasn’t seen the light of day, or night, for like 10 years ……

And how long was lunch? You may well ask. Four hours, dear. Four long, interesting, entertaining hours. Agonising too. I would have liked to kiss it better but I’m not quite so double-jointed, and you know how unreliable the help is these days … so I hoped someone would drop a napkin and bend down to pick it up so I could do a “While you’re down there …” but alas, aloe gel it had to be. As long as I don’t become known as the girl who has a Split Pussanality, I’ll be grateful. Fuckaduckinabucket.

4 June 2004
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