The cleanser, the skirt, the car—where does it end? Today, the jeans.
I put on my black sweatshirt and wiggled into my favorite pair of jeans. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice.
“I see London, I see France …” chirped The Husband, having most likely learned the song from our two elementary-aged sons.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, as I discreetly checked that my zipper was up.
“You have a hole in the back of your jeans, wait—turn around. Make that two holes.”
I put my hand to the back of my jeans near the pockets and I felt the holes in question.
“Not a big deal,” I shrugged, “that’s the style with jeans.” I reached in the cabinet and got out the cereal for Tall and Short.
“Mommy, you can’t wear those!” squealed Short as he bounded into the kitchen. “I can see your undies! They’re white.”
Now I began to panic. If both The Husband and Short noticed the holes, they must really be obvious.
In the space of merely a few short weeks, I was feeling betrayed yet again. How dare my favorite comfy jeans go and die? I had only had them for about five years, and they had been expensive: they set me back about $39 at the Gap. They had always done their part: kept me covered, kept me warm, and kept me from having to go jeans shopping for another pair.
It wasn’t the money or the time that was an issue: I was dreading the actual trying-things-on part of the jeans equation.
After The Husband left for work and the kids went to school, I put on my khaki pants (which did not look as good as the jeans and sweatshirt combo) and drove to Nordstrom. I hesitated to walk in, after what happened last week (come back and read THAT STORY in a sec), but thankfully no one recognized me. I tried on approximately 957 pairs of jeans—none of them fit. I started with what I knew to be my size (10). Their 10’s were cut way too small. I had to switch to the wrong size, 12, which did fit, barely. They were not flattering. And they were $200 each. After trying on all 957 pairs, crying for half an hour, washing my face in the ladies’ room, and getting a free cappuccino, I went to Talbot’s.
Talbot’s was even worse. Every pair of jeans was low-waisted, which is not a good look for me. Next up, Macy’s. The day progressed from bad to worse. Although Macy’s jeans were well-priced (most pairs under $50, on sale), nothing fit well. I was so upset by the shape of things, I didn’t know if I should go run five miles or drown my sorrows in an ice-cream sundae.
I think we know by now which one I chose.
After lunch, I decided to go to my old standby, Target. I was getting depressed and despondent; I hoped that Target would know how to fix my mood. I ended up trying on just six pairs of jeans, all of them men’s. Why had I not thought of this before? The men’s jeans were cut higher, and one glorious pair actually fit me.
I looked at the price, and could not believe what my eyes were telling my brain: $19. Less than a large pizza, which was sounding unbelievably appealing right now.
I folded up the pair and walked up to the register to buy them. The checker scanned the jeans. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she said sympathetically, “these jeans are mismarked. They are not $19. They are on sale for $12. Sorry for the confusion.” I wanted to kiss her.
But, just at that precise moment when I thought my bad luck spree was finally over, she had to go and say something so incredibly mean and bitchy, something that made me seriously question if I can ever shop at this particular Target again: “I love that you’re buying oversized men’s jeans instead of maternity. A lot of pregnant women do that nowadays.”