The Valley Girl and the Wrong Trousers

Growing up I had no special fondness for my home and native land, California. The way I saw it, the 'real' United States lay east of the Rockies, where the mayonnaise  labels read 'Hellman's' rather than 'Best Foods', and where winter meant snow.  Not until I left the West did I come to appreciate its beauty and its relentless appeal to my soul.

Last week, during a visit home, I stopped by my father's office on Ventura Boulevard, in Encino, and feasted my eyes on his view northward across the western San Fernando Valley, mountains in the distance-- the Santa Susanna range running into the San Gabriels-- under a wide cloud-brushed sky.  As a child I had looked at the same view many times, counting the backyard swimming pools and disdaining the suburban sprawl. I fancied myself a cosmopolitan type and determined to live in the heart of a city when I grew up, not to skulk around its outer edges.

San Fernando Valley in December

I was always bad at being a Valley Girl. I failed my spoken 'like' quota and I truly loathed shopping. I still do; I'm terrible at it, always making silly mistakes and bad choices. Nonetheless, I found myself at the Topanga Mall in Woodland Hills on Christmas Eve day, prepared for fight and poised for flight. But it all turned out okay. Pre-teen daughter needed to do some gift exchanging before our return to Toronto on the 25th, so while she considered her choices, I browsed the sales rack, where I found a pair of nice black trousers, not jeans, with an interesting cut and a mysterious size label that made no sense. Held against my legs, they looked about right and just what I needed for work. I asked the shop assistant where to try them on; she gave me a funny look, but pointed the way to the changing room. A hasty check confirmed that the trousers zipped up and didn't require hemming and that the price fit my budget. They were $9.99! How could I go wrong? They also had enormous pockets. How, um, handy. I bought them. Daughter meanwhile selected bath bombs, lip balm, and walkie-talkies.

When we got back to my parents' house, my sisters had gathered with their children for an impromptu farewell deli brunch. Before piling pastrami on rye, I showed everyone my new purchase. One sister gave me the same funny look as the sales clerk. "Aren't those men's?" she asked. "No, they can't be. They were in the women's section," I replied confidently, but of course she was right. Stupid me. This explains the strange sizing and the backwards buttoning, as well as the capacious pockets. From the thighs down, the trousers fit me perfectly, like a glove. From the hips up, they are oddly roomy. Comfortable, mind you, and very convenient should I ever have a spare banana I need to store somewhere. 

I really am, like,  a terrible Valley Girl.