Saturday, March 27, 2010
Back to the breeches. Frankly, they look really good if you're 6' and 100 lbs. I'm neither. I'm 6" shorter and I'm certainly not about to share how much heavier. I have searched long and hard and purchased several pairs of breeches in the search for the perfect pair. Oh, caveat here -- make that the perfect affordable pair. I refuse to lay down a mortgage payment for an item of clothing that will be covered in all manner of detritus and horse slobber. I can probably name 10 breeches manufacturers, the names of the styles they offer, and what page of the lastest Dover catalog they can be found on.
This morning my two favorite pairs were in the laundry, so I had to go for the scrubs. I tried the cost conscious ones on, and realized why I don't wear them anymore - the zippers are shot. The slanted side zipper on the pocket also rubs me funny when I'm riding. So I grabbed the nice blue low riders. And realized there's a reason why my forty year old self did not need to be wearing any low rise 1' waistband low riders. There's nothing holding the extra bits in. Those go in the "Consignment" pile.
By this time I'm D-O-N-E done and I'm down to the last option, the black breeches with the full seat - the lycra/titanium ones.
Slimming? Yes. Comfortable? Not so much. They may hold things in place, but they grab in the wrong places, and the seam that goes across the top of the butt slides down when I bend and grabs my underwear and so there's that EXPOSED feeling every time I pick my horse's feet or bend to grab a brush. So I bend, then grab, then realize I'm not flashing anyone, go back back to what I was doing and bend, grab -- you get the picture? I look like a twisted version of one of those Dippy Bird toys.
So I stop by my local (not so much) Dover store and try on a gazillion more breeches, even venturing into the mortgage payment breeches racks. I grab an armful, try them on, and commence with much Houdini-like contortion, cursing and teeth-gnashing. I can hear my father's voice in my head, " You can't fit 10 lbs of sh*% in a 5 lb pound bag, girl!" Annoyed and out of breath, I bring the winners to the checkout counter. The sales clerk (also a woman of a certain age) sees my flushed face, disheveled appearance, wad of breeches in my arms and smiles at me in perfect solidarity.
I model the winners for my husband, with the idea that the ones he gives the thumbs up to get to stay. I know, BIG MISTAKE. It was going fairly well until I took the ones with the separate leather panels. My husband, a non-rider, took one look at these and asked, "Are those for traction or are they your landing pads?"