Can somebody tell me why some size 10 pants fall right off my hips and others give me a scorching case of camel toe and muffin tops that would make Otis Spunkmeyer himself weep with jealousy? I currently own pants ranging from size six to 12, and all of them fit me, more or less.
I suppose it doesn't really matter what the tag says as long as my bits are covered, but the size disparity is a little confusing to me. If I had a brain in my head and any eye-hand coordination at all, I'd learn to sew my own clothes, but whenever I try to envision this, I see myself weeping, covered in blood, and dangerously close to hanging myself with a length of unspooled thread.
So I remain a slave to the fickle and inconsistent garment industry. Yet somehow I manage to soldier on, faltering but brave. Don't worry, y'all. I'll be all right. In fact, I'm wearing pants right now.
While I'm going on about silly shit like pants (don't I know there's a war on? and a climate crisis? the end of oil? the end of bees?), I'd like to add that right now one of my favorite things is the roasted corn stand in front of the Fiesta market.
I like to take an ear, put a squiggle of mayo on the foil, dust it lightly with cayenne, and twist the ear around until it's evenly coated. It's totally good. I wish I had the guts* to try the shucked corn in a cup there. The accepted practice with that seems to be to squirt mayo into the corn until the bottle wheezes for mercy, shake a tidy mound of cayenne over that, and stir until you have a bright pink corn chowder/slurry situation. People seem to really enjoy it, but all that cayenne seems imprudent to me. I stick with my gently seasoned version and am perfectly happy for as long as an ear lasts.
*Hee.