In CategoryNavel Gazing

I had to go stupid jeans shopping yesterday. 

Everything I have been wearing for the past eleventy years up and died all at once. Like there was a virus in my closet. I’ve had to throw away 4 pairs of pants in the last week alone. So sad. My favorite jeans were actually pregnancy capris that were butter soft and threadbare, with a wide elastic waist that never pinched (maybe they were only big and comfy because I am not pregnant anymore. it’s still a win. shut up). They betrayed me by splitting wide open when I was putting groceries away. I was grateful it didn’t happen in the Frozen Food aisle at Safeway.

This is my ideal shopping scenario: Find something that fits and buy 5 pairs. Go home. 

It’s usually more like this: Try on eighteen thousand things. Nothing fits. Go home. Cry.

So I was very happy to go to out and not only FIND a bunch of stuff that fit, BUT it was all on sale, AND they had multiple pairs of the shorts I liked the best. I came home thinking I was good to go in the Covering My Lower Half department.

After I got everything home and washed, I realized the new shorts that fit great when I was STANDING in the dressing room were a horrible, unmitigated nightmare when I sat. Every time I wore them, all I could think was, “holy crap on a cracker, when can I take these freaking shorts off?”

The situation was so untenable that I worked up some courage and returned them, putting myself right back at square one. This time when I went, the clearance rack was pretty picked over. I tried on some different shorts, but then accidentally saw my ass in those awful angled mirrors and realized that I can no longer wear shorts in public or I risk being arrested for a Crime Against Humanity. Who knew the backs of my knees were so hideous? When did that happen? Is it some kind of symptom of being Almost 40?

And why do they put angled mirrors in dressing rooms? It’s just mean.

I searched in vain for some capris, which are perfect for me because I am very short. Even petite jeans are usually at least 2 inches too long. I grudgingly tried on some jeans, but was crabby about it the whole time. While I was in the dressing room, staring morosely at the 400 square inches of fabric swirling around my ankles, I had an epiphany.

I hate jeans.

I mean, I like denim. But I hate jeans. I particularly hate this boot cut business. Let’s not kid ourselves: boot cuts are merely a less flamboyant version of bell-bottoms. And I think we can all agree that bell-bottoms should die a lonely death, never to be heard from again.

Someone should tell the designers.

In my opinion, boot cut pants make one’s whole leg look as wide as their thigh. Who needs that? Even super-models look like they have elephant legs in those pants. And anyway, boot cut pant legs that are a mile longer than my actual leg make me look like I’m trying to get away from a murderous bolt of fabric that has a death grip on my ankle.

So you know what I did? I bought jeans. Then I came home and hacked about 8 inches off the bottoms of them all!

Pure genius!

My husband walked in while I was standing standing in my underwear, chopping away at the pants I had just been wearing.

He did not think it was particularly genius.


I care not!

Because my ankles yearn to be free!

NOT Jeans!

I will see what happens after they go through the wash. I might end up with a Super Cute Fringe detail. Or I might have to cuff  and tack them.


I care not!

Because my ankles will be free!