It's a Magic Number

All my life, I’ve had a love affair with the number 3.

In college, Howard quoted some oddball film, where an eccentric scientist spelled his name with a silent “7”, and a whole bunch of ‘Q’s or something. I don’t remember the letter configuration, but I did remember the silent number. I liked the idea so much that I began to spell my last name with a silent “3”.

Eventually, the number ‘3’ came to mean anything impressive enough to merit special attention. Spectacular putt-putt venues got renamed go3lf courses. Restaurants I enjoyed had new, silent characters inserted into their names. Angie’s Pi3zza. TGI Fri3days. Sometimes I got fancy, and simply substituted the ‘3’ for another letter. Taco B3ll. Auntie 3ms. T3d Dr3wes. Yeah, two ‘3’s in that one. That ice cream deserves it.

Once I sent a letter to my brother’s roommate, and for reasons I cannot articulate, I screwed up the whole address. I used the wrong first name, mixed up the street name with one that didn’t exist in that town, spelled the city incorrectly, and botched the zip code. So what should have read:

Mr. John Smith
175 N Cherry Street
Delaware, OH 43015

read instead:
Mr. Jeff Smith
175 N Banana Drive
DelaWHERE?, Ohio 41305.

And, of course, I put a ‘3’ in both my names on the return address.

The Delaware post office delivered the letter. Moreover, it delivered the letter in 3 days. Thereafter, that civil service organization became known as the Delawa3re post office.

School House Rock, the great series of animated music videos from the ‘70s, that delivered more education to me than most of my public schooling, had a little song for the number 3. It was a quiet song, nothing like the awesome rock tunes they did for “Interjections” or “Verb! That’s What’s Happening”. No, the ‘3’ song is a soft little ditty, referencing all form of triad from the collective unconscious. Past, present and future; faith, hope and charity, and a constant reference to 3 being a magic number. The chorus warms me particularly:

A man and a woman had a little baby.
Yes, they did.
They had three in their little family.
They had three; it’s a magic number.

Whenever I thought about being a parent, I always figured I would have only one child. So to me, 3 was the perfect number, the right number for my family. I even built a little needlepoint of that poem for X when we were together, inserting DS’s nickname for ‘baby’ to personalize it. He left it behind when he moved out, and I almost threw it out during one of my Purges. I’m glad I kept it. That family is gone, but now I have my perfect family. We are 3. It’s a magic number.

This week, with my loss edging toward the 100-pound mark (a three-digit number!), I went shopping. I was having my period, and so the Octopus was pressing its head against my pants anyway. Things don’t fit me as well in this week than they will in others. I think that may be part of the reason why I’m always in the dressing room during the First Days of my cycle. I figure if I can squeeze into a new size with a little bit of grunting, then they will surely fit for real once my tummy recedes.

Nothing really fit. The Jones New York got close, and I may go back next week to try again. But the Calvin Klein was way too snug. It surprised me, since I’ve had great luck with ol’ CK so far, but I may have to admit that I’m not going to get below a size 6 in dress clothes. I’m okay with it; in fact, it makes shopping a little easier, since apparently it’s okay to be tall if you’re a 6: at least, moreso than if you’re a 4.

I dumped the suits on the ‘reject’ rack on my way out of the fitting room and pointed my cart toward the junior jeans. I’d scored a pretty pair of shorts in a size 5 the week before, and I was feeling lucky. Besides, if I can find at least 1% lycra, I can get those babies on without lying on the dusty dressing room floor (don’t try this yourself: it’s gross, and only kinda worth it).

I found a pair of size 7s with a nice, faded look to the front of the legs. They also had that trademark 1.5” zipper that girls jeans seem to favor, but I couldn’t find anything else that stood a prayer of containing the octopus. I tried to find a size 5, which really fit me better, but these seemed to be a stand-alone. Looks like a slim shopping day for Mistress Crabs-A-Lot.

I realized once I got them into the dressing room that they were not size 7, but brand name Seven. Well, that made more sense. The word ‘seven’ was plastered all over the tags and the stickers and the jeans, and at first, I thought the maker was just really intent on letting shoppers know what size the jeans were. Comforted, I pulled them off the hanger and stuck my foot into the first leg.

Oooh, wow, these are tight! And they feel like much more than 1% lycra. Remember those woolen tights from kindergarten? The kind that don’t ever really pull up so much as just adhere to your leg? Woe to the little girl who sprouted hair too soon-she was about to get the Juniors Stretchy-Tights Epilady treatment. These jeans were just like that. They didn’t slide up my leg so much as creep, and when I got them to my groin, they sort of stuck to my skin. Tugging didn’t really help, since there wasn’t anything sturdy in the fabric at all.

I did a couple of squats and they oozed up over my hipbones. I thought they were way too small, but then I realized that with a gentle pull, I could paste the two sides of the wee zipper together. They buttoned easily, if alarmingly below my waist and I took a look.

The octopus was doing a cliff hang over the belt line, but a couple of tucks secured it into its denim hammock. The jeans had skinny legs, and I like that, and while the rise was ridiculous, they looked okay. I did a turn and my butt was sort of in 2 sections, but looked appropriately mature-yet-junior, and I decided that any jean willing to crawl over the invertebrate was going home with me.

As I was peeling them off of my legs, I noticed the tag in the back read ‘26’. I twisted the jeans off (eventually just turning them inside-out and kicking them off my feet) and then gave the tag a good eyeball. Sure enough, they were a 26. Twenty-six what? It couldn’t be a waist size-it doesn’t get anywhere near there! Then I saw another, smaller number above it. It was a ‘3’.

I checked the hang tags, and there it was again. Seven Jeans. Compare at, blah, blah, yadda, yadda. Size 26 E (Europe?), 3 USA.

Size 3. I was in Size 3 jeans. No holding my breath, no pretending to be bacon on the floor of the dressing room, and no more than 1% lycra. Size 3. Juniors. Mine, mine, mine.

I almost wore them back to the office, but the octopus registered her distress, and so I demurred. I did wear them the next day, though, and while I had some hip bone distress from the closeness of the fabric to my joints, I also got compliments all day long. Great jeans, you look skinny. Where’d you get those? What size are they?

They are 3. It’s a magic number.

Am3y