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I love consignment shops. I mean, nothing makes me happier than to find a nice blouse or a pair of slacks for $5 when I know they were originally $45. 

Every time I went to Delray Beach, Florida, to be with my parents, my mother and I went straight to the hospital consignment shop, which is called The Bargain Box. It was no different this visit.

We usually split up when we hit the door of the shop, and as the tension built she headed for better dresses while I went for slacks and jeans.

I have a thing for white pants, so when I saw a pair of white pants there it’s almost more than I could handle. There they were, hanging on that rack waiting for me, size 3-4.

I snatched the pants off the rack and headed for the fitting room. On route I realized they had really skinny legs and my cup runneth over. 

Quickly I pulled the curtain behind me, zipped off my slacks and shoes and shoved one leg and then the other leg into white jeans.

“Wow! They are really skinny-leg jeans,” I said to myself as I pulled and yanked them up over my hips.

 “Oh yes. Nice,” I said. “Would you just look at this. I will definitely take them.”

I smiled as I sat down on the wooden bench in the fitting room as I began taking them off.

Woah. It was as though they had shrunk right on my legs and they would not move. 

I tried not to panic, but you see, I have these two steel rods in my back from stem to stern and I do not bend one iota making the distance from my hand to my foot seem very long.

So how do you pull one leg out? Either my leg swelled up and my foot grew or those stupid pants grew right before my eyes. 

By George, I would find a way out of these things. 

I wound up all my strength and I plunged both hands and hooked two fingers in the hem and I yanked — hard — and it moved.

How is it that a pair of skinny leg jeans can go on but can’t come off? 

They finally did cooperate with enough yanking. Of course I bent so hard that the rods were sticking out like wings, but nonetheless, the problem was I had to get them off, both of them. I told myself to take a deep breath and laugh.

There have been other times like this when what went on did not come off and I laughed at myself. But this time it was not the least bit funny.

I needed help. Someone other than myself could just pull them off so I called out, “I need help, mother. Where are you?”

No response. 

Apparently, mother was not concerned about my problem and it was a solemn moment to realize that I, after all, was not my mother’s No. 1 concern.

Once more I shot my hand down the right leg and bingo! I caught the hem, so before I snapped my backbone in half, I went for it. 

Off came the right pant leg, which more or less freed up the left leg, or so I thought. 

Do you know those darn pants stuck to my left leg like someone poured glue down me. 

I broke out in a cold sweat. Enough was enough, and frankly I didn’t care who saw my underwear. 

I slung back that curtain, bolted off that little wooden bench and began hopping a one-legged jack rabbit right across The Bargain Box in my underwear. It’s a good thing these kinds of shops appeal mostly to women because nobody seemed to care that I was running around in my underwear all over the shop. 

I had had it. Finally, one of the clerks said to me, “Why don’t you sit right down in this chair while I pull that pant leg off you honey.”

“My oh my, they really are too small for you sweety pie.” 

When we finally got them off my ankles, I put my own clothes on and we left the store. 

Mother’s better dresses were too small also. I swear you just can’t depend on anything anymore.

The view from the mountain is wondrous.

 

Jean Brody is a passionate animal lover and mother. She previously lived in Winchester, but now resides in Littleton, Colorado. Her column has appeared in The Sun for more than 25 years.