Over the last year-and-a-half I have put on some weight. Fifteen pounds to be exact. Or 6.803886 kilograms. In kilograms it doesn’t sound so bad. I may convert to the new math for good. (In hindsight maybe eating out of the trashcan wasn’t such a great idea.)
You see, my jeans had become incredibly tight. Like, cut off the circulation in my butt, hips, and thighs tight. (That’s what precipitated my getting on the scale.) In fact they were so tight that I began to worry that if I continued to wear them I might somehow die from damage to my femoral artery. But still, I was determined to wear them in public anyway.
So I launched into the same routine I’d been performing since college: I slid them up one thigh at a time (left leg first, of course) and sucked in really hard until I was sure all the oxygen was removed from my abdomen. Next up: performing ballet moves and walking lunges to stretch them out enough for the next phase. Buttoning and zipping.
But two pliés into my performance I blew out the crotch in my favorite pair of Joe’s. The pair I was insisting still fit me. Which clearly…
On the bright side, ripping a hole in my jeans the size of a Shih Tzu made them super easy to button and zip. I walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror. The hole wasn’t noticeable from the front so I wondered if maybe I could get away with wearing them. I turned to the side and zeroed in on my HOLY SHIT WHO CRAMMED THOSE TWO HAMS IN MY PANTS?! No wonder my jeans were tight. A family of swine had moved in where my cute little petite booty used to be. This was an outrage. An absolute, one-hundred-percent, travesty of injustice. Oh the humanity. Double downer was this: There was no way I could wear these jeans anymore. In public. They were going to officially become my clean the house jeans. Some people might wonder why I didn’t just chuck them in the garbage. Why keep them? Well maybe those people didn’t hear what kind of jeans I said they were. Joe’s Jeans. Like a hundred-and-eighty-dollars, Joe’s Jeans.
And that’s when I realized something. Blue jeans are not called blue jeans because they’re blue. They are called blue jeans because they send the wearer of the blue jeans into a deep depression.
I hate trying on jeans even more than I hate trying on bathing suits. What can I say, I’m an anomaly.
Because we all have to shop for jeans at some point in our life, I’ve put together some super helpful tips.
*You must (and I mean MUST) do it before you’ve had lunch. Or had anything to eat or drink for that matter. In fact, the best time to go jeans shopping is right after you’ve recovered from some nasty lower GI virus where you puked for three days straight; or immediately following a colonoscopy.
*When grabbing jeans off the rack, take the size you think you are and go up three sizes. Try on THOSE jeans. That way, you’ll be pleasantly surprised when you can get them buttoned without much of a struggle. When the salesperson asks how you’re doing say this: “These jeans are way too big. Can you get me a smaller size?” Trust me, you’ll feel great about yourself. Never mind the part where you’re two sizes bigger than you were the last time you tried on jeans. Small victories, people.
*While in the dressing room, play music on your smart phone as loud as it will go. This will help muffle the sobbing accompanying the before-mentioned trying on jeans thing.
*You know what? Just wear sweats. Sweats are totally cute and go with everything.