This may sound crazy.

It may sound trivial.
It may sound like far too much information.

But something happened to me the other day while shopping at Nordstrom Rack that shook me just a little — and not because of anything big or dramatic. Quite the opposite.

It was small. Almost too small to mention.

Which, of course, makes it exactly the kind of thing I tend to write about.

It was my first time ever shopping at the Rack. That alone is probably telling. I’ve been a Nordstrom devotee for decades. Not because I shop a lot — I don’t — but because I value the personal service. I like being known. I like being helped. I like the quiet reassurance that someone is paying attention.

But that’s another story.

This story takes place in the underwear aisle.

Yes, underwear.
Possibly TMI.
But here we are.

I was looking at packages of three of men’s underwear — neatly wrapped, very efficient, very modern — when I noticed something that stopped me. They weren’t just labeled small, medium, large, and extra-large. They also listed waist sizes.

34″–36″
38″–40″
And so on.

And suddenly I realized something mildly alarming:

I had no idea what my waist size is.

It has been that long since I last bought underwear.

So I did what once would have seemed completely normal. Instinctively, almost without thinking, I walked over to the clerk standing just outside the fitting rooms and asked a simple question:

“Would you be able to measure my waist?”

Her response was immediate.

And emphatic.

It wasn’t a polite no.
It wasn’t a hesitant no.
It was a NO!!

Loud. Certain. Final.

The message was unmistakable: What on earth are you thinking?

I was genuinely taken aback.

In my mind, I had just crossed an invisible line — one I didn’t even know existed. In another era, not that long ago, the response would have been, “Of course,” followed by a yellow cloth measuring tape appearing from somewhere and a simple, professional moment of assistance.

That world is gone.

In this world, my request was apparently inappropriate. Possibly intrusive. Maybe even shocking.

So I pivoted.

I asked if she had a measuring tape I could use myself.

She did.

It wasn’t really a tape at all, but a soft, yellow strip of cloth — the kind tailors used to carry in their pockets.

And there I was — an 80-year-old man, standing awkwardly near a fitting room, trying to measure my own waist, hoping I was doing it correctly.

That turned out to be its own small challenge.

Because it raised a question I hadn’t anticipated: Where exactly is my waist now?

There were, to be brutally honest, two possible places where that tape could reasonably go. And they did not produce the same number.

Neither number delighted me.

In fact, I was a little surprised by what the tape had to say — and not in a way I’m particularly proud of.

Still, I picked one.
I got a number.
I bought one package of underwear.
And I left.

Nothing dramatic happened after that.

And yet, something lingered.

The moment stayed with me because it told me something I hadn’t fully absorbed before: the social rules have changed — quietly, decisively — and if you’re not paying attention, you can suddenly find yourself on the wrong side of them without meaning to be.

This wasn’t about prudishness.
It wasn’t about offense.
It was about boundaries — new ones — that now exist where old ones once felt normal.

And it made me wonder:

How many other moments like this am I missing?
How often do I assume “the way it’s always been” still applies?
And how many small shocks like this lie ahead, waiting in ordinary places?

The underwear aisle was not where I expected to learn any of this.

But life, as it turns out, doesn’t ask us where we’d prefer to be taught.

Sometimes it just hands us a yellow cloth measuring tape and says, figure it out for yourself.

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