Unfortunate episode at the clothing store

It is the night before I fly to a speaking engagement and I am in the all-too-familiar pattern of attempting to stuff too much clothing into a too-small carry-on bag. Since I do this with regularity, I have learned to plot out my week's apparel on a grid, so I can bring as few items as possible while assuring those who see me speak on Wednesday, won't be shocked by me wearing the same clothing Thursday. (Does one spell "anal-retentive" with or without the hyphen?) This procedure also helps determine the minimum amount of clothing to lug. In this process, I realized that a plain black pair of dress pants could serve double duty. Alas, not being the owner of such - I make an emergency run to the clothing store.

A dapper gentleman greets me, "How can I help you sir?"

"Black dress pants please."

"Which size?"

"Thirty-four by 30," I reply. I know this well. Personally, I call it them "32 WLD," which means "32 while lying down," but since he's a professional in the clothing business, he probably refers to them as "34." I shall - in deference to being in his store - speak his language.

He scopes me out and says, "No, you're a 36."

Sucking in my stomach - and now extremely self conscious - I counter, defensively, "No, I'm a 34, been a 34 for 15 years."

Yet, inside, my ego is rapidly turning to jelly, "Am I putting on weight? Maybe I'm bloated? Does this make me look fat?" Oy, the horrible maelstrom of verbal cacophony blowing about in my gray matter! I want to shriek, "Don't you dare tell me what size I am! I am a professional dieter. I can list the calories, fat, fiber, and sugar content of every food ever invented. Go ahead, test me!" Feeling mall security would not take kindly to a raving maniac in bulging britches, I opt to keep closed my pie hole.

Oblivious to the paranoia he has foisted upon my shallow, weak - apparently chubby - ego, he lifts his arms so I can take in the full view of his thinner-than-me waistline and points to himself, "I wear a 34." As an afterthought, realizing one doesn't want to tell a customer he's looking tubby, he quickly appends, "These pants are cut really small." Too late buddy, the damage has been done.

He hands me a 36 and I plod, a broken, rotund man, to the fitting room where I pull them over my legs. Hallelujah! Great day in Heaven, I'm practically swimming in them! A choir of well-tailored angels sings from above, I am validated!

Yet, I must also be vindicated.

Tugging my pants upward with one hand, like a gen-exer hefting up too-baggy trousers, I strut boldly into the middle of the store, pointing at my waist with my free hand and triumphantly proclaiming for all to hear, "Ah-hem! These are waaaay too large."

He eyes my droopy drawers, respond with, "I think they fit well. However, if you want something smaller, we can do that."

Suggestion to clothing store employees: Never tell your customer they are larger than they say they say they are. If I want to squeeze my 62-inch waist into a 29-inch pair of jeans, let me try. Simply clear the patrons out of the store in anticipation of when the button explodes.