Today’s post is a lesson about a serious medical condition. So serious, in fact, I had to come up with a new word to describe it.
So, I’ve managed to lose approximately six pounds since Thanksgiving. This is due in large part to switching up the BC (more on that fabulous side effect another day!) and my commitment to working out and eating sensibly for the past two months. I hadn’t been too aware of this weight loss until I was weighed at the doctor two weeks ago. Oh, I thought. Is that why my jeans need to be hiked up…every five minutes? Then, over the weekend, Eric was engaging in his typical, frequent ass-grabbery — seriously, over the holiday when I was home in Michigan, I’m pretty sure my butt was like, What happened to all the attention?! — and came back with a handful of baggy denim. I was now facing the ultimate white-girl problem: I had lost enough weight to need new jeans.
Now, I’m not at all picky about my jeans. I have friends who swear by designer denim, but it’s never been my thing. Rest assured, I find other silly ways to blow my money on my appearance. But I’ve tried on True Religions and Sevens and all the other important brands that Fergie references in “My Humps,” and none ever really looked that great. The waist was always too low and the hem was always too long, to the point that taking them to a tailor would just ruin them. I get that people say it’s worth investing in one pair of expensive jeans instead of several pairs of cheap ones, but that only works if you actually like the expensive jeans.
And why make myself like them? Express jeans have always fit me perfectly. I know exactly which ones I want and I can just go in and grab a size without trying them on. And besides, my weight fluctuated a lot in college and the year after; I couldn’t invest in a $200 item of clothing that could be too big or too small in a semester. So I stuck with Express. Last winter, I branched out and bought a $20 pair of Target jeans that I loved. I bought a second pair online when the first pair became too big, but after that pair also became too big, I was sad to see they no longer existed.
Faced with the prospect of swimming in my jeans all week, I headed to Express Monday afternoon to buy a new pair of my favorite skinny jeans, in a rather skinny size. But standing in front of the wall of denim, I realized my beloved jeans were…not there! Well, OK, that I could handle. I’d worn the other styles before, and I could make the switch if I had to.
I located a dark pair of skinnies in my size and lifted them up for inspection — at which point I discovered that some designer for Express thought it was a good idea to stitch a cheap silver tag to the waistband. Don’t get me wrong, I like my leopard prints, but this went way above and beyond my Housewives of [insert any city here, they’re all tacky as fuck] threshold.
Well that was out. I was so annoyed. Frustrated, I went to Target. I mean, they could be counted on in a pinch, right?
When I arrived at Target, the wall of denim was the sort of situation that I file under “F” for “Fuck, Cluster.” The sizing system confused me. Why did they have size 5 and size 6 on the same wall? Typically, it’s evens or odds. And apparently now Target carries six different styles of jeans, which are all labeled with numbers. So I could turn down the “1” because it wasn’t my size…but then maybe it was my size, because maybe “1” referred to the cut? And, of course, there were four different washes and three different lengths. After digging for about 10 minutes, and working up the kind of sweat that is the reason I needed new jeans in the first place, I went to the racks.
And then, there they were! Perfect dark skinny jeans with some stretch. I started to go through the rack to find my size when I saw the label: JEGGINGS.
I abandoned the rack and headed to another, but again: JEGGINGS.
Like, when did this become a thing????
I get that leggings-cum-jeans are a trend, but come on. To the point that I can’t buy regular jeans anymore? At Target?
I decided to try on a pair of jeggings, along with some of the possibilities I’d settled on from the wall.
The jeggings? Were vile. Sure, they’d work as leggings, but I don’t have a closet filled with shirts you wear with leggings. If I wore those god-awful things as jeans, I’d most definitely be That Girl. There was just no way. The other jeans were a disappointment too. I went back to the wall and dug for another 10 minutes, and then went to the racks again, where I discovered, nope…still all jeggings!
You know it’s a bad day when you leave Target empty-handed.
I had not planned to go jeans shopping. I had just planned to buy jeans.
I didn’t want to go back to the mall, so I made an executive decision to stop at Off 5th on my way home. I mean, it was right there. I knew it would be all designer denim, and I figured I’d hate it, and it would cost way more than I wanted to spend…but at this point, I was so over shopping, that I didn’t care.
When I arrived, I realized that Off 5th had none of the stress of Target.
Off 5th had neat stacks of all of Fergie’s favorites.
And Off 5th had everything buy one, get one half off.
I had no idea where to start.
Luckily, I knew what I wanted: dark skinny jeans without embellished pockets and no pocket flaps. I started collecting jeans, having honestly no idea what size I was, both because I’m not used to buying jeans with inches instead of just sizes, and also because I’ve lost weight. I had to try on so many pairs to even get to the right size, and there were some brands in which I totally overestimated my weight loss and was left tripping all over myself in the dressing room in jeans that would not go over one thigh.
I made several trips to the dressing room, and the uppity salesgirl got more uppity every single time I returned. Each time I’d step out of my room to view my jeans in the three-way mirror, I’d see her reflection in the mirror as well, several feet back, just glaring at me as she folded pair after pair of jeans. (Which, to my defense, were not all mine.) She offered no words of reassurance and I didn’t have that friend to tell me what they thought. I don’t know that you’re supposed to go jeans shopping alone.
Eventually, I found a pair of Sevens. The length worked. They fit well. I liked them…I could even say I loved them. But from what I’d heard about buying designer denim, I was supposed to have a raging hard-on when I found the perfect pair. These did not seem to do anything more for my ass than my Express jeans had, yet they cost about twice as much.
But the thought of going back to the mall made me give in. It felt wrong. Yes, I was investing…but I couldn’t be sure I was investing wisely. I felt like one of those girls who dates the wrong guy because she’s too lazy to find someone she’s really crazy about. He seems good on paper and the thought of trying online dating just kills her, so she toughs it out.
Blame the dressing room lighting, blame shopping fatigue, blame whatever — but I was wrong. When I put the jeans on the next morning, I fell in love.
What the hell is in that denim that just makes your ass just look right? I mean, I lack the badonkadonk that I thought was entitled to me as my birthright, but these jeans at least gave me the ass of a hot white girl. I could walk and breathe and sit without concern, but somehow, the jeans were just the perfect amount of tight.
And that was when the denimentia set in. I could not stop checking out my ass. Not only did they make me look a million times thinner than my too-baggy jeans had, but they also just…sprinkled me with magic fairy dust! No matter which way I turned, the jeans chanted like Nelly.
I was infected! It’s a miracle I even left the house; I was rather content to just quarantine myself and play Narcissus all day long.
So, yes, I love them, and want to think of them as a reward for a year of Core Fusioning when I’d rather be doing anything but, but quite frankly, they’d only feel like a reward if they had been free. Yes, they are amazing, but they damn well better be amazing at that price! It’s really not a reward when you have to spend your own money on it, now is it?
I got home from work and was tempted to skip Core Fusion but then I realized the true magic of designer denim: when you spend a lot of money on something like that, you sure as hell want to wear them as long as possible. Out came the mat, the sports bra, the Thighs & Glutes DVD. I can get them tailored smaller if I shrink, but they’ll be trapped in the closet like R. Kelly if I go the other direction. Apparently, the extra $75 dollars on the tag is the price you pay for motivation.
Of course, the true test will come tonight. It’s time to debut them for Eric and see if they attract the same sort of attention that short boxer shorts and yoga pants tend to attract. I’m really looking forward to my first trip up the staircase tonight ahead of him. I’m pretty sure once I get that seal of approval, I’m going to stop looking for a cure.
So now it’s time to be honest. You’re among friends here. You can talk about it. Tell me — do you suffer from denimentia?