It was either that or continue sporting a saggy-ass pair of black jeans that have stretched to the point of no return. And, having given birth to three babies, I feel like I have the authority to make accurate assessments about things that have stretched to the point of no return.
Jeans shopping sucks. It’s an established fact. A widely accepted, overarching universal law of nature. But I’ve come to the conclusion that it actually sucks more when you’re a mum. Here’s why.
If you’re jeans shopping shortly after you’ve selflessly brought new life into this world, firstly, go home. Languidly enjoy the free pass that is the limited post pregnancy months where you need not do something as confidence destroying as jeans shopping. Please.
You’ve also probably had at least a portion of the last nine months spent wearing the luscious elastane divinity commonly referred to as the maternity jean. The literal equivalent of a pair of pants that fits even though you’ve just spent the last three weeks at the all you can eat Sizzler buffet.
Once you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security by the accommodating elastic banded blissfulness of a stretchy front panel, you’re pretty much ruined for other jeans.
In some horrendous twist of misogynistic perversion, jeans shopping suddenly morphs from “unpleasant necessity” to “me time” when you’re a mum. And yet, equating “me time” to the shoehorning of oneself into the unyielding, sturdy yet constrictive workwear of 19th century miners, whilst a nubile young former gymnast bangs on the door and asks if you’re “right for sizes”, somehow doesn’t seem like justice has prevailed over womankind.
Me time, quite rightly, is supposed to entail wandering around Target buying things for the children instead of yourself, drinking coffee whilst looking at photos of the children, and talking to strangers about how you have children at home. Jesus. It’s a pretty simple concept.
I think we all know well that when an enthusiastic sales assistant asks how you’re going in the fitting room, it’s the equivalent of someone knocking on the public toilet door and asking you if you need help wiping your ass. Ain’t nobody got time for that shit.
As a parent I have forgone any prior misconceptions I had about even going to the toilet without an audience again, so it would be pretty all-time to be able to try on a pair of pants without someone poking their beedy little judgement eyes around the curtain right when I’m trying to haul a pair of pants over the tub of cottage cheese stuffed into sausage skins masquerading as my legs.
I’m pretty sure buying a pair of jeans that are too tight is akin to marrying a man thinking you can change him.
And yet… it’s still a thing. A thing that happens.
On my journey to the seventh circle of hell, my helpful sales assistant talked me down a size initially.
Oh happy day.
What were the most comfortable jeans I’d ever worn became a slightly tighter version of the most comfortable jeans I’d ever worn. And 76% more likely to come home with me. Because vanity sizing for the win. Why buy a 27 when you can buy a 26? Meanwhile, I don’t even know what those sizes are. What ever happened to 6, 8, 10, 12? Is this a #fashion thing I was not aware of?
So this point was where the fitting room’s appointed slice of rainbows and skinny-jean-wearing perfection just started to flat-out lie to me.
“Try the 25” she said, “that will be the right size”, she said.
Flattery will get you nowhere hunny but please, tell me more about how “adorbs” I am.
As it happens, squeezing my child bearing hips into the “right size” jeans for me meant practically amputating my own ass after reconfiguring my calves so they were situated somewhere near my shoulder blades.
“They will stretch”.
My logical brain does know they stretch. As previously stated, I know a lot about stretching. That being said, I carried twins to full term and I still believe nothing stretches as far as those size “25” jeans were going to need to. Denim may give, but this denim was giving me nothing but a distinct lack of blood flow from my knees to my brain. I need my brain. I use it at least 2-3 times a week.
Also. I need to be able to bend. And, you know, eat a meal every now and then ideally. I also can’t guarantee that whatever weird size that I am now which sounds more like the amount of spoonfuls of Nutella I’m going to eat in the privacy of my own laundry, will be the size that I am next week.
It’s been scientifically proven that I’m a tight ass. Maybe I should have been buying the smaller jeans after all. Badum bum. Chh.
But seriously, I baulk at buying bread with seeds if it costs an outrageous 20c more. As a stay at home mum there is also a certain amount of guilt that is associated with no longer being a money earner, so as such, I find it even more difficult to fork out excessive amounts of money on an item I’m only going to have the confidence to wear in a dimly lit room.
That said, I still bought $139.95 worth of jeans instead of the $69.95 pair I went for.
And last, but certainly not least…
“Skinny leg” jeans pleased stop mocking me. That is all.