How Women Turn the Fitting Room into a Courtroom

I don't know what's more humbling: stepping on a scale after Thanksgiving or having my wife hand me a pair of pants two sizes larger than I swear I've been wearing since the military.

Every man thinks he knows his own size until he goes shopping with a woman. That's when he learns two things: the truth hurts, and she's always right. Women seem to have an uncanny ability to know men's sizes, which can be both helpful and a little humiliating. It's always more helpful than we ever care to admit but humiliating in the same sense that it will be once your kids are tying your shoes for you.

I'm convinced they take a secret class in high school where they learn to size up a man's waistline from 20 paces. You walk into the store thinking you'll grab a pair of jeans and leave in five minutes. She walks in like she's preparing for battle—with tape measures and a laser focus. They factor in shrinkage, posture, and the five pounds you gained during football season—all in the blink of an eye.

I head straight for the rack marked '32x32,' only to have her pull me aside and say, "Honey, maybe we should check the 34s... or the 36s. I mean width, not length. You're not gonna get any taller."

To be fair, I had gotten to 38 at one point and have cut that back to 34 after dropping a good 80 pounds. This decrease in weight happened due to an event in Lagrange, Texas, where a fine doctor at Saint Mark's informed me that my diabetes had progressed to the point where "we start chopping things off now."

If you're smart, it doesn't require much more convincing than that.

Because of this, I have learned to take some well-intentioned direction. For us, pants are pants. For them, pants are an expression of who you are—or at least who she wants you to be the next time you're seen in public together. She doesn't want you looking like a kid who outgrew his church pants or someone auditioning for a boy band.

We're a bull-headed lot, however, and we know what we like. Or liked. Or saw on TV in the 80s and liked. You put on the jeans you swore would fit, only to find they're tighter than a pair of sausage casings. No one ever wants to know how the sausage is made, and you don't, either.

She'll peek in and say something like, "Those look great if you plan on not sitting down all day." These are the words that wound pride and create binge eating in anger, so we'd rather walk around in clothes that cut off circulation than admit she was right.

But, stubborn.

We'd sooner blame the dryer for shrinking our shirts than admit we've been hitting the buffet too hard. It can become problematic in the other direction as well. You make your way to XXL shirts, realize the sinful error of your ways against your good health, and slip back down to XL.

Soon, you get a bit too healthy for your intentions and find that now you are wearing a size L, and all your clothes are gone because the women in the house have stolen them. The loss of feeling sporty again requires a box of doughnuts in reparations.

Then she pulls in the fitting room lady. You're toast.

The fitting room lady is no mere employee; she's a gatekeeper, a sentinel, and occasionally, a co-conspirator in the grand scheme to humble every man who dared to enter a clothing store with his significant other. She doesn't just oversee the fitting rooms—she orchestrates them like a general commanding her troops. And if you're the poor fool caught in the crossfire, well, heaven help you.

It starts innocently enough. You're standing there, arms full of denim, holding the latest batch of "must-haves" your lady picked out. Then the fitting room lady sees you. Oh, she sees you.

"Is she waiting for you, hon?" she asks you with a smirk, her voice dripping with the kind of amusement reserved for a mother watching her toddler try to eat spaghetti with his hands. Before you can protest, they've formed an unholy alliance. It's a sisterhood of judgment, with shared glances and whispered laughs.

The moment I walked into the fitting room, pants in hand, I should have known I was walking into a trap. "Go on, try them," my wife said, tossing another pair over the door like she was lobbing me a grenade. "And don't come out until they fit right." The fitting room lady chimed in from her perch: "We'll be right here, sweetie, just holler if you need anything." Sweetie. That's how you know they've already decided you're helpless.

The final indignity came when they both stood there, hands on hips, critiquing the fit of the pants while I was still in them. "Turn around," the fitting room lady commanded like I was auditioning for America's Next Top Model. My wife squinted at my backside. "Those are okay, but do they come in a darker wash?"

"Try these next," they chorused in unison, tossing another pair at me. By the end, I wasn't sure who had dressed me more—myself, my wife, or the fitting room lady. All I knew was that this wasn't shopping; this was boot camp, and I had failed the mission.

The next time she hands you a pair of pants, don't argue. Just trust her. She knows your waistline better than you do and probably your cholesterol level. She's not just picking your size; she's saving you from yourself—and from your own bad taste. Admit it, guys—when she picks your size, you look decent for once.

Sure, it stings at first, but then you realize you're no longer tugging at your waistband or feeling like you're wrapped in a parachute. If you're comfortable, you'll stop whining about your clothes.

If you look good, she gets to brag about 'fixing you up.' It's a win-win for her. You get to move on with your life.