Getting a leg up on the truth isn't always easy
by Beth Teitell

Tuesday, March 13, 2001

I'll tell you one thing. I didn't want to be lied to. Or did I?

The pants were wool but so light they flowed like silk. They were a rich camel color, with a flat front and the kind of legs that look good with either shoes or boots. Andie McDowell would shop in Soho in those pants. Gwyneth would watch her mom perform in Williamstown in them. Jennifer Aniston wouldn't like them - they're too classy.

And me? In them I'd be Mary Tyler Moore, flopping down on my couch at the end of a charming but exhausting day, crossing my long, slim, camel-clad legs, looking as fresh as when I'd left for work, my hair in its flip, Rhoda on her way over.

And oh, they were on sale, it was the end of the season. But you know how these things go. There were only two pairs left, one at each end of the bell curve.

``Just try them,'' the saleswoman at the Newbury Street boutique said. ``You never know.''

You never know. While that's technically true - you can never really know anything in this world - with pants sometimes you do know. You look at the cut of the hips or the low rise and you can feel the discomfort, see the bulges. But when something has the power to change one's life, anything's worth a try.

The saleswoman poked her head through the dressing room curtain. ``Do they work?''

Without getting too graphic - the Boston Herald is a family newspaper - let's just say they did not ``work.''

I had gotten them on, but that was about all. ``They're a little tight through here,'' I said, indicating, though that was not necessary, an area about to blow around the upper thigh.

But the saleswoman was good. ``They may feel tight,'' she said, ``but they sure don't look it.''

They didn't? Be still my beating heart! I was a fan whose team scored a last-minute touchdown to even the score. I was back in the game! But a little part of my brain was still thinking rationally, and it was suspicious. ``Ask another customer,'' it urged, ``someone not on commission.'' Spoil sport.

A woman in the dressing room next to mine stepped into the communal mirror area. Her opinion was solicited.

Some people. I tell you. I didn't think she looked particularly good in the dress she was trying on, and for that matter I didn't like how she was wearing her hair, but did I say anything? Who was she to tell me I couldn't be Mary Tyler Moore?

I left the store empty-handed. Walking home, I called a friend on my cell phone to report what had happened. I expected sympathy, but got a lecture instead.

``After the Golden Globes all you could talk about was how bad Allison Janney looked and how could her people let her go on national television hanging out of her strapless gown like that?'' she said. ``Well, maybe her people tried to tell her but she didn't want to hear it.''

As luck would have it, not long after my own pants incident, I witnessed one. It was a slow day in a Brookline boutique, and a woman named Susan was trying on a pair of jeans, which, as my mother would say, ``were not doing her any favors.'' But as I said, there weren't too many customers in the store, and Susan was outnumbered.

``Look how cute Susan looks in these jeans,'' one saleswoman said to another.

The other agreed. ``Susan, you look adorable.''

``You don't think they make me look kind of . . .'' Susan was at a loss for words, but none were needed. It was stumpy city.

``You're focusing on a tiny flaw,'' saleswoman No. 1 said. ``No one else will even notice.''

A reinforcement arrived. ``You'll wear them to the movies with your husband, he'll love you in them,'' a third saleswoman said.

Someone had to tell Susan the truth, I thought as I watched the feeding frenzy. It's what I'd want someone to do for me. I think.