Ok, Plan B. This time I’m bringing mom to a consignment store I know of in the city. It’s popular and well-frequented, and there is lots of variety.
My mom was never much into consignment, so I’m hopeful, yet skeptical, and hoping she won’t back out before we go in.
I try to be cheery on the drive over. Let’s just try it, I say. She is already in a negative frame of mind.
Mom: They won’t have my size
Me: You never know, the worst thing we can do is try
Mom: They won’t have a place to sit down
Me: Actually, they do have chairs in the change rooms
Mom: What? Really”
Mom is skeptical. Skepticism is good I think to myself, it keeps you sane to question the world we live in. I’m not phased.
It’s definitely an adventure though.
We go in and the owner is there. She recognizes and greets me. I’ve brought clothes here before to consign. I introduce her to my mom, and try to explain what we want. We go to the pants section, as I explain that I’m unsure of my mom’s size. Perhaps a 2 or a 4? She’s very tiny. Finding pants is hard. Harder if you can’t get changed into them. Today, I’m determined to have her at least change into some and try them out. The owner is optimistic, “I’m sure we can find something.” We start with a size 2, and an XS. We get my mom settled in, as I take a whirl though the racks. I check out anything that is black, brown, or navy. Anything neutral. Anita pulls anything that she thinks my mom might like. I reject a few – a Large elastic waistband that I know my mom will reject on site, a too-busy pant legs that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in. Like those skinny pants that are all the rage right now. My mom would neither want to be in the rage, nor have everyone gawking at her legs.
From the change room, I hear a squeak.
Mom: Dear?
Me: Yes, mom.
Mom: Can you come here?
I go over, and peek behind the curtain. She is holding the pants but doesn’t have them on.
Mom: I need help.
Me: There’s the seat, just sit down, and put them on
I am obviously missing something.
She sits down on the seat, and tries to lift her leg to take off her pant. She has lost her coordination. She is embarrassed and self-conscious.
My heart goes out to her. I help her lift her leg, and tell her to let the pants fall. She is concerned about letting go, in case she can’t pull the pants up again.
I’m saddened by my mom’s condition. I help her out of her sweat pants, and pull up slightly to help her ease her pants over her swollen feet. My mom hasn’t been doing much walking lately so her feet have swollen.
Putting the pants on goes in reverse.These ones don’t pull up past her legs. Too small. That was the 2. I can feel my mom’s heavy disappointment. She used to be a 0, very tiny. Too small for most scales. Now, she is bigger than a 2. Her eyes are bugging out again..Surprise. Perhaps some shame. She’s never been this big before! “Don’t worry”, I say,”Numbers don’t mean anything. Maybe they are teen sizes”. She tries the next one and the next. All in all a dozen pairs she’s tried, and then, another dozen. The “No” pile is growing. I hand pants back to Anita – too small, too tight, can’t get the pants up over the legs, too snug on the tummy, no pockets, too fussy.
After trying on so many, there are 3 that sort.of.work. My mom isn’t happy.
Mom: See? I told you they wouldn’t fit.
Me: These 3 are ok, and they look good, I say.
Mom: They don’t fit the way they used to. I’m a different shape, she says.
Me: 3 fit ok, I say. I start in on describing how women’s bodies are different, and often times, it’s men designing the clothes. Men who are designing for women’s bodies but not understanding how they swell at the slightest bit of water retention.
She is also having troubles with different closures. Zips go well, unless they are stuck or heavy. Metal zips with big teeth particularly get stuck at the beginning or part way, depending on the smoothness of the track. Buttons are hard to push through, and hooks of various kinds, may require a nimblneness of fingers that I hadn’t realized was needed. Sometimes, there is a combination and the mind is stuck there, trying to figure out which way to push or to pull.
Once she has pulled them up, I step back to give her a bit of privacy. Anita is there with a pile of clothing for us to try.
It takes time. I run out in the middle to move my car and re-plug the meter. Meanwhile, I’ve determined that my mom is between sizes.
A lot of effort for almost nothing.