Changing Lanes: Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable?
Sean Connery would meet a woman, as the two of them happened to be parachuting from different doors of the same, wide-bodied Boeing 797. Amusing repartee and names would be exchanged, while they floated upon a rubber raft, which happened to fall from the sky with them. “Bond, James Bond” and “Kitty Abundance” would be on a blue, tropical ocean, she wearing a bikini and he in full evening wear.
Small talk and witty banter would continue, as they discarded the raft at the rear of a gleaming casino. Somewhere along the line, Kitty would step out of sight and into something less comfortable, such as a sequined evening gown with a matching purse, just big enough to hold a snubnosed 38 automatic.
Drinks shaken or stirred, good and evil and who worked for which nasty genius would pass as banter, through dinner. Bond would win it all, at the roulette table.
While having a nightcap in Kitty’s suite, the two would smoke thin cigarettes and talk about bombs and bullets, espionage and intrigue.
Bond would try to find out where the secret super-weapon was concealed, as Miss Abundance connived to poison Bond. At some point, she would say to 007, “I’m going to slip into something more comfortable.”
Moments later, the lady emerged, shining and shimmering.
While I have yearned for this situation to happen to me, it never did. I wanted everything, except the parachuting and poisoning and other dangerous stuff, of course. And I wouldn’t know the top from the bottom of a roulette wheel, so I wouldn’t have done well at the casino, either.
Now, I have discovered that we all want “something more comfortable” to slip into, so much so that manufacturers mark smaller sizes on bigger clothes. They call it “vanity sizing.” This is similar to politicians’ changing the truth and calling it a “spin,” instead of “lying.”
Years ago, womens’ clothing sizes were widely variant. A woman could wear a size 4 dress one day and an 8 the next. Both fit nicely. I was only an observer to this; my thinking was that women actually wanted the truth to be “spun,” so what business was it of mine?
However, I recently realized that vanity sizing is a fact of life for all of us. I no longer had to increase my pant size every year or so and was tricked into thinking I had finally stopped gaining weight.
I stopped looking at the scale and took it as proof that my pants’ waist size was the same, or smaller, than it used to be. It was positive proof, sewn right into the label of my jeans. My weight had stabilized. I really wanted to be spun to.
Then, copious lethargy set in and my toes became less visible. With Bond-like sleuthing, I stepped on the scale and realized my pants size was not a good indicator of my weight.
Now, when I tell Emmy, “I think I will change into something more comfortable,” she responds, “So what?” She knows it has nothing to do with anything more than fleece or soft, cotton sweatpants.
I call them my “fat pants.” At the end of a long day spent dressed in proper attire (pants maybe a shade too small), encumbered by tools and odd jobs that don’t resolve, but disappoint, the best feeling is changing into a sloppy tee shirt and fat pants, sitting with my feet up and a good book to read.
I don’t think they will be calling me “007” any time soon, though.