It's All in the Jeans

(photo from JAG jeans website)

I've put on a few lbs lately, and my jeans protested being stretched to the limit. So I ventured out to the mall to buy a new pair. Yeah, super fun. After mucho humiliation in the young, cool department, I decided to give the older ladies' department a try.

After loading my arms with skinny jeans, because apparently older ladies are expected to shoehorn themselves into skinny jeans like the rest of us, something caught my eye.

First I thought it was a rack of  maternity jeans, which didn't make sense because I was in the older ladies' department, but no, they were something called JAG jeans-- high waisted, pull-on stretch jeans with no zipper or belt loops. I thought it would be hi-larious to try them on and possibly make fun of them here on the blog.

I mean, they looked like they'd come up not quite to boob level, but bra-less boob level for sure. The wide fabric band on top was like one of those belly bands that pregnant women wear, except I was pregnant like a million years ago and missed out on that whole thing.

Sure that I was in for a good laugh, I pulled them on and felt... comfortable!

What had started as a joke suddenly got real, Dude.

Sure, there was the risk that all of that lycra could give way to mid-day crotch sag, making me look like Justin Bieber, but maybe it was worth the risk. They felt so good. Then I wondered if it makes any sense to buy jeans when you've gained a little weight; isn't it better to stay uncomfortable as a motivator?  Shouldn't I keep my jeans  "aspirational?" 

Oh my. I wanted the jeans. I tried to justify that I could promise myself I'd never wear them out of the house, since I work from home now, but I've tried that line of reasoning with slippers, yoga pants, and my banana clip, and my resolve never lasts. What starts as a quick trip to the mailbox soon becomes a milk run to the grocery store, then who knows? If I bought these jeans I'd have to be willing to wear them out and about with high-waisted pride.

I was not ready to commit to that.

So, I stripped them off and started trying on the stack of "real" jeans,  you know the ones with zippers. Let's just call them Chafey, Scratchy, and Squeezy. It was like putting on pantyhose immediately after taking off flannel pj's. I was in trouble.

I put the un-jeans back on and looked at my rear. Could I really make these things work? In the car world, a Jag might conjure up the terms "streamlined and sexy," but these Jags were not doing my butt any favors, that's for sure.

But what about the convenience?  If I had a pee emergency, there would be no belt to fumble with, nothing to slow me down. Can I get an Amen on that one?  I would always wear a long shirt or sweater. NO ONE would have to know I lacked a zipper.

So after ten minutes of internal debate, I decided to buy them, even though I am terrified that Margaret will find out. At age 12, she looks with scorn upon all of my clothes and claims I invented the fact that I was "Best Dressed of the Class of 1987."  The first time I bend down and she sees the stretchy fabric reaching toward my clavicles I'll be discovered. 

I got to the cash register and handed them to the older lady working there, along with a coupon clipped out of the newspaper, because that's how I roll. Her response, "Oh? High waistband? I had a pair of pants like this once!"

Excellent.

Judge all you want, but I'm super comfy right now.

Turning in my "Best Dressed Card" momentarily.