Anti-Camel Humps a/k/a The Gap Loves Me Now

Let me preface this by directing you to another story (if you haven't already read it) and letting you in on a little age old lie of mine.

First, if you haven't read "camel humps" you can't appreciate the glory of this experience (yes, I'm exaggerating) and as for the lie, let's just say that I haven't shopped at the Gap in, oh, I guess it's been about 4 years - ever since I started dumping the massive quantities of fat that had found its way to my ass and everywhere else. Why? Because (here it comes) "their clothes run too small to fit adult women." Get up. It's not that funny you hookers. Actually, it's more pathetic than it is funny.

On this particular day, the Hubby wanted some of those "destroyed" jeans (and trust me, he looked beyond good in those things cuz they wuz snug in all the right places and they wuz ripped up and . . . OK. Stopping now.) So I thought why let him have all the fun but then remembered where we were.

The Gap. ((insert overly dramatic B rated movie music here and throw in a few good **gasps!** for good measure while yer at it.)

First thought in my head - "Well SHIT, I can't shop HERE! **sniff sniff**" And then the demon in me decided to live a little dangerously, told myself I was at the lowest weight of my adult life, grabbed the youngin' and headed for the "girl" section.

Doodle: What size do you need Mom?

Me: Screw it . . . um . . . whoops . . . . um Mommy wants a 10 (figuring I'd need at least either a 14 or a two man tent in that place).

Doodle: OK. Here.

Me: What does the tag say? (cause you gotta be careful that she ain't lookin' at the price instead of the size but of course nothing costs $10 in the jeans section at the Gap so I suppose I was relatively safe but it seemed like a reasonably good stalling tactic at the time.)

Doodle: (Squinting) Um . . Size 10, Long and Lean, Low Rise. Here. Go put 'em on.

Me: Oh fuckfuckfuck. They were fulla holes n junk and they had a zipper like mebbe 2 inches long if that and all I could think was "camel humps".

So, while the hubby was otherwise occupied with his own jeans issues, I hustled into the dressing room, stood there a second, crossed myself as only an ignorant non-Catholic can, and hauled them up and stopped. Twisted around and looked. Nope. Nothing camel back there. Buttoned 'em. !!!!! Zipped 'em. !!!!!!!! Stood there and puzzled it out a bit. Strolled out to a husband who's eyes went the size of fifty cent pieces. Frowned cause I was confused at his reaction thinking "Oh there is no WAY I missed the camel humps, oh shit where are the camel humps, and spun around a few time like a dog chasing it's own tail. Walked over to the dreaded 3 way mirror and paused again. Took a deeeeep breath and turned. Turned so you could see your backside full on and I shit you not I squealed.

Dear Man who Might Be Reading this: OK. I know you don't get it cause y'all suck in yer gut and turn sideways to see what you look like in the mirror but for your information, we women have yet to figure out how to suck in our ass and most us avoid a clear and unobstructed view of our ass like the rest of you avoid lunch with Paris Hilton or a dentist who's novocaine supplier just cut him off.

Continuing . . . .

Cause my big, honking, 45 year old butt was flat out gone. Oh trust me, there was a butt there, but just a butt. Not a BUTT.

I danced.

I jigged.

I did that little run in place with yer arms pumping while you giggle thing.

I jumped up and down and I slipped in my socky feet and decided I'd pushed the celebration quite far enough thank you.

AND I BOUGHT TWO, COUNT 'EM, TWO DAMNED PAIRS - one ripped up and ankle length and another dark blue, long to wear with boots pair and I did NOT fucking care WHAT they cost cause I repeat: I DID NOT HAVE CAMEL HUMPS AND THEY FIT AND THEY WUZ SIZE 10 AND I WAS IN THE GOD DAMNED GAP!!!!! ((breathe)) I'm a very very happy person this morning so you'll have to excuse me.