Bigger Britches

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11:59

I don’t remember doing it, but I chose the Wranglers.

My mom told the story regularly: “You wanted Jordache jeans, but they were $30 a pair. Wranglers were only 10, so I told you you could have Jordache, but we could only afford one pair. But if you got the Wranglers, you could have three.” 

The shopping trip was the new-clothes outing for second grade. It was 1983. The year before, my parents were still together, and Mom “didn’t worry about money as much when we were still together.” Though I don’t remember asking for Jordache jeans, I do remember the horse’s head on the Jordache label, or, on some versions, stitched onto the back pocket. I liked the horse on the label. Horse or no, I chose the Wranglers. Apparently. 

It was the right choice, based on the praise and approval it got me. In my imagination, I can hear my Grandma Ruthie, my mom’s mother, saying “she’s so mature for her age! So rational! So thoughtful!” And then she probably turned to my mother with a wink at me and said, “she gets that from me, of course.” 

I may have learned the lesson of the Wranglers a little too well. In adulthood, I have denied myself top-tier brands because: I can manage with this knock-off version from Target or I don’t NEED new furniture, used is just fine or I’m just not a designer clothes kind of person. My whole life, I have made do, priding myself on my frugality. 

In high school, I dragged my stepfather to every shoe store in the mall, trying to find a more budget-friendly version of the cowboy shoes I’d fallen in love with—cowboy boots that ended at the ankle, with the pointy toe and the patterns of a full boot. A decade ago, when my daughter was tiny, I lingered over the Pottery Barn laundry sorters and drying rack that hang on the wall. They were so homey—beautiful AND useful. Instead, I purchased a practical sorting cart and retractable clothesline from a big box store: useful, but not so beautiful. 

In the past several years, I have begun to see how my mature, rational, thoughtful mind applied itself not just to possessions, but also to setting “realistic” goals. The audacious goals, the ones I secretly longed for, were never in my sights, because: I can manage with this more attainable target or I don’t really NEED all that money (and fun), this is enough or I’m just not a successful author/artist/public speaker kind of person. Sticking to goals that were within reach was the smart thing to do. Like the Wranglers, it felt like what I was supposed to do. Sometimes, if the bigger goals had the audacity to nudge my mind and heart, I would hear my late father’s voice warning me “don’t get too big for your britches, Trace.” 

Right, Dad. Right. I have to stay safe. I knew that’s what he meant: safe and practical. In the swirl of years and memories, his praise of my artistic effort sits adjacent to his certainty that “writing isn’t a real job” and “it’s impossible to make a living as an artist.” As a young adult, if I complained about tasks I did not care for at my (poorly-paid) job, he would respond “that’s why they call it ‘work.’ There’s a reason we don’t call it ‘super happy fun time.’” In other words, discomfort was just a fact of life, and one that he expected me to take on, both because that is how it is “supposed” to go, and, sometimes, to make his life easier. Throughout my life, when his wife behaved badly in my direction, he always asked me to change to accommodate her foul moods. 

Through Dad’s influence and that of too many people to name, I learned a constellation of truths: it’s good to be smart, but it’s better to be nice. Don’t make other people (especially men) uncomfortable. It’s good to have opinions, but don’t express them too loudly or where too many people can hear. It’s great to be good at drawing and painting, but for God’s sake don’t show off! ‘Real’ money is only available through work you do not enjoy—never creative work that might be deeply rewarding. I mustn’t get too big for my britches. I must stay small. I must be agreeable. Accommodating. Palatable. These were the rules to remain lovable. 

Boiled down to its essence, my constellation of truths taught me: if love was the goal, smallness was the price. In all likelihood, I would still be laboring under those truths if something hadn’t shifted. Today, I allow myself to want things. Disruptive things. But my life needed to be disrupted before that could happen. 

The child of divorce, I always told myself that any marriage—any relationship, really—could work if both parties were willing to work on it. I had decided that my folks gave up too easily; that if they’d only put in more work, they could have made it work. Two and a half years after my husband transitioned into my spouse/wife, I was working myself into the ground, and I hadn’t, yet, admitted to myself that it wasn’t working. Around that time, an acquaintance whose wife used to be her husband told me about the book The Ethical Slut and how opening their marriage had allowed them to stay married. 

At my suggestion and insistence, my spouse and I read the book. Reading the book gave me permission to consider alternatives. I allowed myself to want an open marriage. And after I fell in love with a man only to lose him to his ex-girlfriend six months later, I allowed myself to want no marriage at all. Wanting to leave was not small, palatable, or accommodating, but I could no longer pretend I wasn’t miserable. 

I asked for what I wanted and the world didn’t end. I allowed myself to admit I wanted more. 

I started upgrading my wardrobe, beginning with underwear. I had purchased a black pair with lace trim that matched my bra for a date, and felt so good in them, I vowed to never again wear panties that come in a package of five. Then I bought myself a new pair of everyday shoes: Franco Sarto loafers to give my Converse low-top sneakers a break now and then. In the midst of our new relationship energy era, my polyamorous boyfriend had favorably compared me to a 1940s pin-up girl, so I acquired two pairs of high-waisted, 40s-style pants. As the weather turned colder, I replaced the practical ski jacket I’d worn for several winters with a beautiful ivory wool coat by Calvin Klein.

When I moved out of my marital home, I rented a 1938 semi-detached near my daughter’s school and decorated it the way I wanted. I bought new rugs with big abstract patterns and new bedding with rich jewel tones and mismatched pillowcases, all of which is far too loud for my old life. My collection of Wonder Woman and Rosie the Riveter artwork, once relegated to the laundry room (overlooking the not-Pottery-Barn fixtures), now takes pride of place in the living room.  

Previously unacceptable desires did not make me unlovable. In fact, within a few months of the breakup with that first boyfriend, I found myself with three. And then my brain started to question other old ideas. What if Dad was wrong about work vs. super happy fun time? What if I could make money doing work I actually enjoy? These questions made Dad’s voice louder. Don’t get too big for your britches, it warned. I tried to be good, to not want, to be grateful for almosts and not-quites and this-is-how-you’re-supposed-tos, but those good girl britches chafed. And finally, one day, as the warning played on repeat in the background, I could no longer convince myself I could be content with a too-small life. Then I realized something—when a child grows too big for their pants, we don’t ask them to stop growing. We buy them new pants. 

I know my father meant well. He had big dreams as a young person. He was going to be journalist, a novelist, a filmmaker. In fact, he was an insurance salesman who became a financial planner. And he was a successful financial planner—very successful by some measures. But it came at the cost of his dreams. He was trying to shield me from that heartache. Of course that isn’t what he said. He said, “they call it ‘work’ for a reason” and “don’t get too big for your britches.” It felt true because he was my dad, and because the first sentiment made kitchen-table sense and the second was obviously an aphorism.

Once I realized how terrible the metaphor in the aphorism is—stop growing if your pants are too small—I got curious. Where did it come from? Who thought this was a good idea? Apparently, the phrase was first written by Davy Crockett in 1835. Crockett said, “I myself was one of the first to fire a gun under Andrew Jackson. I helped to give him all his glory. But I liked him well once: but when a man gets too big for his breeches, I say Good bye.” 

There is not room in this essay to unpack the fact that the detestable Andrew Jackson was the object of the derision embedded in this turn of phrase. It does seem worth noting, however, that Crockett didn’t mean what (I interpreted) my dad meant. Crockett was telling his reader that Jackson had become too egotistical, more cocky than was justified. It seems fair to assume he did not mean to suggest that the sitting president of the United States had too-lofty goals. It was his arrogance, not his ambition, that had outgrown the breeches. 

My father passed away more than a decade ago. I can’t ask him what he meant when he told me not to get too big for my britches. Maybe he thought I seemed arrogant, and he was warning me to be more humble. Maybe for him, as with so many in our society, ambition in women read as arrogance. Regardless, in my memory and imagination, he wasn’t telling me to stay humble. He was telling me to be mature, thoughtful, and rational. He was telling me, “don’t aim too high. You won’t succeed (and you might become unlovable).”

Regardless of how it is used, the idiom makes little sense as a metaphor. Too-small britches mean nothing more than that a wardrobe change is needed. In fact, from now on, and with apologies to Mr. Crockett, when my good-girl pants grow too small, I say Good bye, and buy myself new britches. I do not mean this metaphorically. 

It turns out Jordache still exists these 40+ years later, and they still manufacture the 1978 stovepipe jean in midnight blue. Though the label no longer bears a drawing of a horse (and as designer jeans go, Jordache isn’t the flex it was in 1983), I smile to myself on mornings I pull them on. They fit me perfectly, for now. But I will not stop myself from growing. In fact, I will stretch every limiting belief, try on every previously unacceptable want, until I manage to outgrow my life, again. And when I do, I will buy myself a new pair of britches.