For all those who've been tuning in on the hour hoping for news of the Great Jeans Wearing of 2006, with considerable sadness I have to report that it's all off. Since those first heady hip-constricting days of early December, the jeans have been growing increasingly roomy. By the 10th, they were old friends, up for anything my legs could throw at them. By the 15th, I could slip the Complete Works of Tolstoy into my waistband. By the 20th, I was receiving tenders from marsupial smugglers, wanting to contract out my pants to sneak a couple of poteroos through customs. Moreover, along with their rapidly increasing capacity, they were growing rather too aromatic for the modern nose, and I feared for the tender young nostrils of my nieces and nephew, forced to inhale their aunt from the other side of the flaming plum pudding.*
I have now washed 'em (the jeans, not the nostrils), and they've shrunk alarmingly (the jeans, not the nostrils), and I'm thinking, in light of forthcoming festivities and the flaming plum pudding, that I'll stick to a toga for the next couple of days.
* which is actually a flaming plum pudding, not a euphemism for a malodorous jeans-related phenomen, or a new breed of lapdog.