Imagine my delight when I discovered such a gracious garment available for an outrageously affordable amount. My inclination to "Buy American" was overshadowed by the lure of low prices and misspelled promised quality. I made my purchase courtesy of the People's Republic of China and eagerly awaited its arrival.
Soon, my ankles were swimming in a smooth, silk-like material. My waist reveled within the loving embrace of an elastic waistband. Any bulges were rendered barely noticeable. I was a nylon ninja. A synthetic fabric-ed fashionista.
I skipped happily off to school, responding to compliments with a kick and a twirl.
I was unhindered by my fears of flashing back fat to an unsuspecting passerby. I could crouch like a hidden tiger and out-stretch a snake.
Mid-day brought a morbid discovery.
could not, for the life of me, understand what on earth I was looking at. Why could I see the floor through my slacks, I wondered. My breath suddenly hitched. How long had the seat of my pants been completely blown out by what looked like a cannonball?
I wormed my way to my room to collect an alternative wardrobe. During my nonchalant walk of shame back to the restroom, I, of course, ran into my friend, Tyler, who decided today was the day for an hour-long discussion on WHO KNOWS WHAT because I was just trying desperately to change my clothes.
Later, my students barely noticed my transformation although some did express delight over my Field Day shirt depicting me as Medusa. My "I've never actually worked out in them" work-out pants were just as comfortable as my previous outfit with the one BIG advantage that there wasn't an unadvertised back-door flap. Any pretense of looking professional had long since unraveled. Dignity had disappeared. The only thing left to cling to was modesty and my flag.
What's my message? Buy American.
No comments:
Post a Comment