Then the Sun Came Out and the Angels Sang

If there's one thing in the world I hate to shop for - and there is, otherwise this post would be wasted time for both you and me (assuming it's not already) - it's jeans. It's like they're made to fit broom handles, and then, so that they don't have to go to the expense of actually fitting around my stomach, the ingenious makers decide to stop the material about 6 inches below what will keep me modest if I happen to bend over. And, due to the fact that I can't hold anything for longer than 30 seconds without dropping it, I have to be careful whom I bend over in front of. That is way more stress than I should have from my jeans. And they frown on me taking a bottle of wine in the fitting room, so I have to do it sober. So. I dread jean-shopping. When I walked into Walmart today, I was hit with an urge to check out the jeans, and I hadn't been drinking yet, so I have no idea what came over me. Maybe 12 hours of sobriety? Anyway, ignoring my better instincts, I slunk over to the clothing department. I was cursing before I even arrived, and I just don't think that's healthy. But the jeans I was wearing - my only pair - are stretched out and don't fit right anymore (no complaining here, goodbye 20 pounds, I'm toasting your disappearance as I type!), leading to a threat of exposure greater than what I'm comfortable with. So, I shopped. For jeans. Sober. I only took 2 in the fitting room, because I figured after that point I would be frustrated enough to leave without buying the necessities we need around here. And, tolerant though he may be, The Professor wouldn't take "the jeans didn't fit" as a suitable explanation for the lack of toilet paper in the house. The first pair fit. Perfectly. Flawlessly. Comfortably. And with no threat of indecent exposure from my rear side. After I picked my jaw up off the dressing room floor (gross), I carefully checked the mirrors, because I was pretty sure they were some kind of fun-house-deception. I almost asked the attendant to let me try another fitting room, to make sure they fit if I wore them in a different location. But as I hadn't bought the wine yet, I was afraid that giving the impression of a total loon would flag me from being able to check out with any. So here I am, wearing jeans I'm not scared of. And terribly afraid that if I wear them in public, the whole backside is going to randomly fall off the first time I sit down. Is there a phobia for jeans? More importantly, is there medication for it?