SIZE WHAT?

November 12, 2026

by Rusty W. Mitchum

Well, I can tell Christmas is just around the corner because my wife, Janet, is out shoppin’ for Christmas gifts. I usually wait until a little closer to Christmas before I start my shoppin’. You know, like, Christmas Eve.

Fortunately for me, Janet is easy to buy for. She likes clothes. Now, some men don’t like to buy their wives clothin’, but it don’t bother me. You see, I’ve got a system. I keep her sizes and all that junk in my billfold, so I don’t have to guess at anything. Plus, I don’t do the buyin’. I hand it off to somebody else. Now, it’s not as bad as you think. Here’s what I do. I’ll go into a department store, and find the prettiest dressed woman in there. I figure that she bought her own clothes, and if they look good on her, then she’s probably got an eye for fashion. Then I’ll give her my little piece of paper that has Janet’s sizes, colors, and junk, tell her how much I want to spend, and then tell her I’ll be back in an hour or so. When I get back, she’s got everything picked out. I pay for the stuff, give the lady a generous tip, and leave. Then I take the junk over to my daughter, Michelle, and she will go through the stuff, to make sure Janet will like it, and then she’ll wrap it up for me. Cool, huh? Of course, it wasn’t always like that. I can remember the first time I decided to buy Janet some clothes.

The Christmas after we were first married was comin’ up and I decided to buy her a new dress. Now, we were newlyweds, and didn’t have a lot of money, so I had to save up for a while. When I finally got enough money, I headed to a nice dress shop. When I walked in, I felt like a fish out of water. I looked around, and finally saw a real pretty lady standin’ by a rack of dresses.

“Howdy,” I said. “I’m lookin’ to buy my wife a pretty dress.”

“Very Good,” she said.

“What is?” I asked.

“What is what?” she asked back.

“What is very good?”

“Huh? Oh, no. I was just saying...well…never mind. Did you have anything in mind?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I see,” she said and walked over to a rack, turned back and looked at me and asked, “Petite, junior?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “Rusty Mitchum.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m Rusty Mitchum. I don’t know any Peter Junior.”

“No, no. I was wondering if she’s a petite, junior, or misses.”

“She’s a misses. Like I said, she’s my wife. Misses Rusty Mitchum.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m asking about her size,” she said through gritted teeth.”

“Oh, she’s just a little bitty thing,” I said. “Top of her head comes to about the bottom of my chin.”

“Do you have her measurements?”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed heavily, and then smiled, although the smile looked kind of like a forced one. “How big is her waist?”

“Well,” I said. “If I put the tips of my thumbs in her belly button and stretch my fingers, they almost go around to her back.” The lady’s eyes got big. “Oh, it’s okay,” I said. “Like I told you, we’re married.” She rolled her eyes.

“Okay,” she said, and sighed again. “How about her bust?”

“Her what?”

“Her bust,” she repeated.

“Her what?” I asked again. Then the lady put her hand up under her…well…. you know, and then she started movin’ them up and down.

“Her bust!” she said loudly. “Her bust!”

I stepped back. “Ma’am,” I said. “You’re scarin’ me a little bit.”

“This is what’s called a bust you idi….” She didn’t finish the word. She looked down, cleared her throat, looked back up, and then forced another smile on her face. “How big is she up here?” She said through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I don’t know if I ought to tell you that or not. I don’t think she’ll want me to do that. That’s kind of personal.”

This time her eyes looked like they had fire in them. “Here,” she said, and grabbed a dress off the rack and shoved it into my hands. “Take this one. It’s pretty. Tell her to try it on, and if it doesn’t fit, bring it back.” Then she looked up for a second like she was thinkin’. “No,” she said. “You don’t bring it back. Have her bring it back.”

“Okay,” I said. “If you think she’ll like it.”

“She’ll like it,” she said, and ran over to the cash register to ring it up. “Cash or Charge.”

“Charge?”

“You know. A credit card. Do you have a credit card?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“May I see it, please?” she said still smilin’.

“Sure,” I said, and I dug it out of my billfold and handed it to her.

“What’s this?”

“That’s my credit card. It’s the only one I got.”

“This is a Kidd-Jones credit card.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can only buy gasoline at a Kidd-Jones service station with this card.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, why did you hand it to me?”

“You said you wanted to see it,” I said. She just looked at me. It was the same sort of look you see war veterans have when they just get back from a big battle. I think they call it the 2000-yard stare.

“Ma’am,” I said, as I waved my hand back and forth in front of her eyes. “Ma’am? Are you alright?” Finally, she snapped out of her trance.

“How much do I owe you,” I said. She looked around like she was lost.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.

“For the dress,” I said. “How much I you owe for this here dress?”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I was confused for a second there.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Happens to my wife all the time.”

“I’ll bet,” she said under her breath.

Anywho, to make a long story short, I paid her, took the dress home and wrapped it. Janet tried it on Christmas day, and said she loved it. You know, I never saw that dress again, but a few days later she was wearin’ one I had never seen before. Go figure.