If the pants fit...

I have never been a fan of shopping for clothes. When I was a kid and teenager, nothing would fit my stick-figured self. I had no hips, I had no waist, things fell off and bagged and sagged. I always seemed to be “between sizes” and would have to take at least two sizes of each item into the dressing room.

Nowadays, I have hips, I have a waist, and my issues seem to be more on the cling and pinch and bind end of things. Nevertheless, I am still relegated to taking several sizes with me into dressing rooms. What size do I wear? Heck if I know. I thought I was safely in the double digits but then recently found a single-digit dress that fits great, so I truly have no clue. And I'm probably not alone.

Ask any woman and she will tell you knowingly that clothing sizes differ by manufacturer and price point. Want to be a smaller size? Skip the diet and Spanx. All you have to do is go to a fancier store and pay fancier prices. There seems to be an inverse relationship in women's clothing between the number on the size tag and the number on the price tag. I am certain I could be a Size 0 tomorrow if I were willing to pay four figures for a dress. But I'm not, so instead I get to suck up my self-esteem and pay small prices for big sizes at econo clothiers like Old Navy.

And so it was a few days ago when I was killing time in a mall waiting for my new glasses to be “ready in about an hour.” I wandered into Old Navy, lured in by their displays of fiberglass people frolicking in beach wear, sun dresses, and cargo shorts. Having dodged ice pellets in the mall's parking lot, the sun-filled promise of espadrilles and layering tank tops was irresistible.

After trying on my 16 carefully selected items in assorted sizes, I emerged from the dressing room triumphant with 3 winners. I was especially happy with one summery pair of powder blue pants. Despite the size on the tag, I liked them even more when I modeled them at home for Rob and he flirted, “Those pants look really nice on you.” So back to the mall I went a few days later to get another pair in the ever-boring-but-versatile black.

I honestly intended to just grab a black pair in the same size as my powder blue ones and head to the cashier. But the first pair I grabbed wasn't black enough. It looked sort of faded. So I grabbed another black pair and in the brief moment both pairs were in my hand pressed next to each other, I noticed one pair was at least half an inch bigger in the waist than the other. I snatched another pair. It had yet a different waist size despite the matching tag size. Incredulous, I assembled four pairs of supposedly identical black pants and stomped off to the dressing room. And would you believe each pair fit differently? One pair was far too tight in the thighs, one gapped horribly in the waist, one was at least one inch longer than any of the others, and one – which I am now wearing – was the perfect bowl of porridge.

As astounded as I am to learn that I can't even trust the sizes within a style number, I have to admit that I am a bit relieved, too. I now feel more justified in the HOURS it takes me to find clothes that fit. The perfect pair of pants is even more of a needle in a pasture than I thought. And I also can rest easy knowing that I am not really the size on any of the clothes in my closet. Single digit or double digit, petite or long, Misses or Junior. Turns out my real size is simply “Toni.”