So I bought me a new belt the other day, and went through some serious trouble to get it. Sad thing is that I don’t really need to wear a belt at all, as my pants don’t fall down when I leave the house beltless. I’ve never been one who has needed to affix geeky belt-related apparati such as fanny packs, multi-purpose knives, or cell phone holders to a belt either. So yeah, it’s basically there as an impractical fashion accessory for lack of better explanation. Dumb thing is, like my tattoo, most of my shirts cover it up, so no one sees it anyways. But I know it’s there and it comforts me in some strange sort of way.
This whole belt kick started a few years ago. I needed one to hold up some ol’ jeans I scored at a thrift store that were a bit too loosey-goosey around the waistline. They accommodated my lower half in a rather flattering manner, so I bought them figuring I’d buy a belt to make ’em work. Since that moment, being a creature of habit I now feel incomplete without a belt on. Without a belt, I get the same feeling I get when I leave for work without my watch on. It weirds me out. Even if I’m running late, I’ll get out of the car, run back into the apartment, and get it if I have to.
So. Belt #1 bit the dust and I was on the market for a new one. This is a very important decision to make, big time stuff here. I hit the stores in search of my next bitchin’ belt that no one will see, much less will not be worn to hold my pants up.
After hitting about 6 shops, I found THE belt. Nice big ol’ thick chunky black thing, adorned with thick strips of swell silver studs all the way around. Just like I wanted in 6th grade. I dug out a 32 incher, ’cause that’s my size, and assumed that meant it would fit me. Big mistake.
I got home and started slipping my new belt through the loopholes of me pants. My lips were pursed and my tongue stuck out the side of my mouth a little.. you know, that really focused look people get sometimes. The belt made it all around back to the front, and well I’ll be damned, there was a 1″ gap between both ends. I pulled really tight thinking maybe I could just wear it that way, but then faced the fact that I’d have to make the 15 mile drive to swap it out for a larger one in lieu of having bruised hips and stomach cramps all the time.
There’s another location of this particular store in the Mall-O-America which is conveniently on the way to my parent’s house. I was heading out there anyhow, so cool, I thought. I’ll just exchange it there.
Got to the evil empire that is El Paseo Grande de America, and 45 minutes later landed a parking spot about a mile from the entrance. The mall looked not unlike the size of a pitcure on a postage stamp. I made the trek in and through the crowds of people, got into the store to swap my belt, and after digging through the 20 they had there, no dice. The other location was the only one that carried that kind. Cripes, throw me a bone here, people.
Now I was really wanting that belt something fierce. So far, yet so close. I waited yet another day, made the 15 mile drive out to the original location, and thank gawd, they had one that fit me. And believe you me, I tried that bitch on first before swapping it out. Ample room to grow in this one should I ever become impregnated.
Moral of the story? There really isn’t one. But next time you see me, just know that I went through a lot of work to find the belt I’m wearing that you likely won’t even see. Heck with that, I’m trimming off the bottom 4″ of all of my shirts and am gonna display this f’in thing with pride. Get me a scissors.
