I'm Going With King Banana!

So, I’m out shopping for Buckeye gear for the big weekend, when I decide to stroll through the ladies section. I need to find one or two more dress pants for work and I noticed a few with reasonable price tags. According to Tommy and other designers, I’m a solid size eight, so I confidently walk back to the dressing room with my size eight selections. As I go to slide into the first pair, I have problems getting them past my hips. I do that silent giggle thing, as I realize that I grabbed the wrong size – probably a four or a six - how silly of me. However, when I check the tag for confirmation, the tag clearly reads “8”.

Whoa! What’s up Tommy? What’s up Michael Kors? Am I an eight or what? According to this "Jenni Max" girl, size eight is a just a pipe dream for me! Which of you designer clowns know how big my hips really are? Style and Co. here thinks I’m a size twelve, which is funny in the “not so funny way“, in that last month I bought a pair of slacks from them that assures me that my hips are indeed, a solid size eight. So which is it?

How do I get up one day with size eight hips, run through my day, eat carrots and cauliflower, sleep seven hours, and then wake up the next day with size twelve hips? Seriously, how does that work? And how do I wrap my emotional brain around that? Do I wear eights on Monday to make the day more bearable and then slide through Friday four sizes larger knowing that sweats on Saturday is just a day away?

And who do I believe? Do I strut my stuff in the twelves, believing in my heart that I’m really a perfect eight or do I prance around in the eights, knowing deep down that they’ve suckered me into buying a pair of pants because I wanted to believe I was an eight. ( Good strategy, if so )

Or do I believe Banana Republic? I have a pair of their jeans that clearly labels everybody else as crazy, because they claim I’m a size six. I admit, I’m oozing out of them a bit, but my hips like ‘em just fine. I’ve never felt comfortable leaving the house in them, but I do put them on whenever the twelves try to make me feel bad about myself. I figure the twelves can’t be right if the sixes are. I think I read somewhere once that Banana Republic is the king of the jean industry. If King Banana says I’m an over sized six, then I choose to make that my truth.

If Jenni Max and Style & Co. want to label me a size ten or twelve, then they can just keep hanging from their hangers, because they’re not coming home with me!