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A good friend of mine recently said to me, (during a conversation about pants, so it wasn’t weird or anything):
“You should buy yoga pants. They’re the most comfortable pants in the world, and they make your ass look fanfuckingtastic. If you buy yoga pants, and sometime in the future someone asks you which are the most comfortable pants in the world, you will, without hesitation, say yoga pants. Swear to God.”

Or something like that.

Yesterday I went clothes shopping, and I tried on some yoga pants.
“Holy shit!” Said I. “These pants are, in fact, the most comfortable pants in the world.”
So I bought them and wore them today. I wore them today with the intention of either buying a pair for every day in the week or just wearing this pair till its gross and crusty.
Whatever.
I had shit to do today, and If you’ve ever had shit to do with a five-year-old and a two-year-old in tow, you’ll understand how daunting a prospect that is. Plus, the shit that was on the list required stops at multiple locations. That’s never the recipe for a fun day in 100-degree heat with the kids.
Today, I was a Walmart person. Generally, this doesn’t happen. I’m a Walmart snob. I blame Walmart for all the ills of the world. Climate change, all Walmart. Underage drinking, Walmart. Domestic violence? Why, slap that one right on Walmart. Walmart is my whipping boy for everything. Today, however, Walmart carried all the stuff I needed, thereby eliminating two of my stops.
In we go.
Produce was our first stop, and as I was squeezing the plums, I noticed that my underwear seemed to be wedging itself firmly up my ass. The wiggle didn’t work. Even the casual tug to one side did nothing. There was nothing for it. I had to yank it out.
Each stop in the store came with a new and different wedgie. In pets, it was the left side only wedgie. In menswear, The complete wedge, encompassing front to back, and side to side. In the baby section, it was the teenie weenie wedgie. Just the tiniest hint of a wedge, which might be worse than the complete wedgie. In active wear, I tried to ignore it. I tried so hard…. I started sweating, and walking like I was having a seizure, or doing some kind of really unfortunate public dance. In home goods, it got so bad I started having to perform an extraction every few steps. I’m sure security was watching me; I was scoping the place for dark corners, looking to my right and left to make sure I was alone before I took care of my nefarious business. They must have been laughing their cloth-free asses off.

It’s the pants. My fucking most comfortable pants in the world need to come with a warning label. I’d have needed a degree in proctology to fish that one out permanently.
At our last stop in the store– the pharmacy– right in the middle of the outside-in wedgie, the children lost their little minds. Their heads started spinning, the little one started a marathon tantrum, and both of their little asses ended up in time out. Just as I sat them both down in a less trafficked area, a childless and judgmental lady with a runny fucking nose rounds the corner and throws me a disgusted look.

I knew right away she was childless. She stank of free time.

I was enraged through my half ass double twist wedgie. We finished timeouts, and as we left, I flipped her a subtle bird and picked my wedgie for all to see. I was in Walmart, after all.
K wailed as we went through the check out line. It was lunchtime, and  since there’s a Subway twenty feet from me, we were in luck. The poor woman who made the kids sandwich; not so much. She had to put the right ingredients together above k’s wailing.
Once K started eating, she calmed down, much to the appreciation of all the old men in the Subway, which was a surprisingly high percentage of Subway patrons for a Wednesday morning. Maybe they think they’ll look like Michael Phelps if they eat there. I don’t know.

The next person to arrive in our little world is that lady that knows the subway employees by name. She looked like she just came from the Walmart salon next door, where she had asked to be made over into a middle-aged version of Little Orphan Annie. She’s that lady who thinks that because I have children, that I am, therefore, kind and approachable.
She is mistaken.
She is also a fast and closed mouth talker, so I could only understand 10-20% of what she said. Not that I’m wringing my hands over what I missed. The problem was; I had K spouting at me from across the table:
“Mommy, mommy ogliamuhvseeeuring kivberfiashen chips”
At the same time, from my left,
“HurgadurdaFURDAmurds 8 boys and 2 girls”
Then K says,
“Fank you kuldiabugefulamen mommy”
Then, from my left,
“DirnegurdaLARDAmurda that one! (Obnoxious laughter)”
I replied to the air, hoping that it worked for someone, “Oh, yeah. I hear you.”

Partially.

It went on like this. I nodded and inserted “Right” or “yeah” where it seemed appropriate for either conversation for as long as I could take it.
It’s time to go. I packed the rest of their food away, threw my children in the cart, and made a land speed record to the… Parking lot.

Where in the fucking man tits did I park? No worries, it’s only eight jillion degrees out, humid, and the parking lot is only the size of Nebraska. J is asking every thirty seconds where we parked, and if we don’t find the car rather quickly, Subway lady will be hot on our heels, and ready to help.

Partially.

Walmart is like its own universe, time and space are altered, you go in for a box of Claritin, and come out twelve years later with nose hair trimmers and HD Sunglasses. Your children’s heads spin, really, really fat ladies wear shirts that make it look like they have boobs in the back, and when finally you emerge, blinking in the fucking hot sun, you have to turn around three times to get your bearings.
Eventually, we found the car. Maybe that’s why I’m a Walmart snob. It’s like the Twilight Zone in there. Or an alien invasion. Maybe we were all abducted. Maybe we all had anal probes performed under anesthetic by the lady I couldn’t understand, who was actually an alien, and speaking alienese, which was why I couldn’t understand her. Maybe all my wedgies were simply time to up the anesthesia.

Fucking Walmart.

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