I have really large hips. It’s hell to find pants that fit. I remember it like it was yesterday, it was our Islamic holiday, Eid, about five years ago. I always wore dresses to the prayer and festivities, but that year, I wanted to try something different. I was going to rock a pant and blazer. I had found the shirt and satin blazer the week before and had tried desperately to find the perfect pair of slacks that were loose. I’d gone to at least seven stores. Eid was the next morning, and I was mad tired, so I had to settle on a pair of slacks that were fitted. I knew that my husband at the time would be a little annoyed, but the under shirt I had covered a bit of my hips. I could get away with it. Or so I thought…
I stepped into the mosque, feeling good and looking great. All the sisters stopped me and looked me up and down. “What a fashionista!” they exclaimed and showered me with kisses and hugs. We took selfies and tons of group photos. I actually mastered the smoky eye look and it turned out amazing. It was a happy occasion. Until I saw him standing with his family. I made my way across the room and tried to hug him. He didn’t hug me back. “What’s wrong?”
“Why are you wearing pants?” he asked.
I scoffed. “What? I can’t wear pants now?”
“My shirt is long,” I replied.
“Everyone can see your shape. Do you see all these men here looking at you, my wife?”
I grabbed his arm. “No one is looking at me.”
He snatched his arm away and left me standing there. I grinned nervously as his sisters frowned judgingly at me from their table.
Later on, I tried to make things better but then he blew up. “Who comes out the house looking like that?” he yelled, darts of spit flying into my face. “You couldn’t have put on an abaya? You embarrassed me.”
I sunk farther down into the seat, crying. “I just wanted to wear a pantsuit this time.”
“They don’t sell looser pants!?!”
“Do you have to scream?” I sat up. “And no, I went to so many stores, and this was what could fit.”
The next Eid, I had learned my lesson. I used my own money to get a dress made. Since, I had embarrassed him so bad and he made me feel like I had just walked in front of his family and the entire mosque in a bikini. The dress was long sleeved, fitted yet flowy at the top with a full swing skirt at the bottom. It was a little big in the waist, so I had the seamstress make me a matching belt.
Once again, I walked into the mosque, greeted by the sisters who swooned over my custom-made dress. My husband was on his phone, leaned against the wall. I snuck up behind him. He looked up and grinned. I twirled then posed. “How do you like my dress?”
He looked me up and down once more, then said. “It’s too tight in the waist, and I can still see your shape.”