Jeans

I have an absolute nightmare when it comes to buying jeans. Getting a pair that fits me is impossible, or rather, getting a pair that fits everywhere is impossible. I have large thighs. Not in a girly, "Oh, my thighs are just too big" way, but in a I run too much and have large thigh muscles type way. As a consequence I am obliged to buy "loose fit" jeans, though once on me the term loses all it's meaning, and they look like shrink to fit ones. Even with the loose fit option I have to buy jeans that have a larger waist size than I actually need. So I end up with a 36" waist having to be cinched in by utilising a belt, to avoid a Coco the Clown appearance. This all means that when I can actually find a pair of jeans that fit reasonably I buy at least two pairs, on the basis that I might not find anything remotely comfortable again for some time. One of my favourite pairs has recently developed a split, well it started as a small hole, grew into a tear and is now a gaping split. Unfortunately it's in a place where I cannot wear the jeans unless I want to risk an indecent exposure charge, and the patching attempt I made just made matters worse and a tad more uncomfortable in the nether regions. You get my drift. So this weekend I set out to find a comfortable new pair. A short trawl of the multitude of shops within the Trafford Centre yielded nothing that would get over my thighs without an industrial elastic band to keep them on my waist. I'd almost given up hope when the nearby supermarket offered the option of a loose fit pair at an extremely attractive price. So I thought I'd give them a whirl, nothing ventured, nothing gained etc etc. I got them home, tried them on, and miracle of miracles they fit really well, with minimal cinching required. Result. All was well in my world of jeans. Until last night. I was answering a call of nature for the first time wearing my new jeans, and all was well, until I began to notice that the fly of my jeans is actually constructed from razor wire, and it was beginning to bite into a far too sensitive part of my anatomy. This was nowhere near a "There's Something about Mary" moment - it was not Frank and Beans, and there was no trapping or bulging, but it hurt like hell and gave me all too good an insight into what the "Mary" moment would feel like. Surely there are some Health and Safety laws surrounding the area of flies? I am now painfully aware of the risk associated with these jeans, but what will happen if I've imbibed too much alcohol and forget? A man should be able to relax in jeans, not fear the consequences of a momentary lapse of attention. Mrs Zilla showed her customary concern: "Well that's just karma, for you not having a vasectomy!" Thanks, I love you too.