I'd take the rack or thumbscrews over skinny jeans any day. By skinny jeans I mean that denim instrument of self-flagellation some of us keep around and try on from time to time in the vain hope we'll be able to fit into that unmaintainable size, a size we were once however many years ago. In this bit, the author gets a new twist on the skinny jean mind-f*ck, when she squeezes her one-year-old into a pair of pants that were just not designed to accommodate the squishy goodness of a toddler. Aside from the whole issue of mini-adult clothes passing for kid outfits today, the skinny jeans became a reminder of the total nuttiness our girls get about weight and body image and all that. Long live the comfy pants.
Before my kid was born, I lived in fear that I'd pass on my own body-loathing to her. I believed I had to learn to accept every lump and curve of my physique in order to spare her a lifetime of messed-up eating and mirror scrutiny. But while I did not manage to accomplish complete self-acceptance before her arrival, a nice thing has come to pass. When I look at her plump thighs and muscle-y calves, I think they are the most beautiful thing ever. And since she got those from me, I get to turn it around a little. Maybe it's ass-backwards, but it works. And for the record, she's a big fan of elastic waistbands, so there you have it. Not a single pair of skinny jeans in the closet. Yet.
