Even at my advanced age (approaching seven decades of decrepitude), I have kept my boyish figure. And I have always been stylish because my wife buys my clothes, which I sometimes stick in a drawer or hang in a closet and promptly forget about, only to discover them months later with the tags still attached.
But when it comes to pants, I have gone to waist.
That was shockingly obvious when Sue bought me two pairs of shorts that I not only couldn’t button without exploding like the Hindenburg (“Oh, the obesity!”), but couldn’t sit down in unless I wanted to sound like I was trying out for the Vienna Boys Choir.
