Size Issues

I have an issue with the jeans industry. Obviously, the denim makers of the world all got together one afternoon, knocked back a few martinis, and gleefully came up with the idea to collectively fuck with the minds of poor, unsuspecting jeans buyers everywhere. What other explanation is there for my recent experience?

The scene: Dillards dressing room. I've got everything I need for a successful jeans buying experience: a friend who doesn't lie about my ass looking fat, easily removable shorts for minimum changing time and every single pair of jeans that caught my eye on the showroom floor.

First up: Seven brand, size 31. This is the same size of my favorite Silver jeans that have fit me wonderfully for two years. I slide the Sevens on. They slip over my ankles, up my calves, to my knees and...uhm...they won't move. I tug. I pull. I hop. I lose my balance and nearly smash my face into the mirror. People outside the dressing room must think the jeans are trying to eat me alive, and, when I hazard a glance into the mirror, it certainly appears that they tried to eat me alive and are now in the process of spitting me up.

I let out a disgruntled curse, which is my friend Sarah's cue to get me the next size up. Size 32. The largest size of Seven jeans in the store. Surely, these must fit! But no. I can barely zip them. Now, there is a problem when a normal sized woman cannot fit into the largest size of jeans in the store. A big, fat, hairy problem and no, the problem is not my ass.

Pissed off, I switch styles. Still Seven brand, size 31. They're too big. They are so big, they bag in the ass and give me the oh-so-attractive look of Woman Carrying Doody. Same brand. What?! No other explanation but evil jeans designers who have realized there is no more originality to be had in designing jeans and are now getting their kicks torturing women and driving them to eating disorders.

I shove all the Seven jeans out of the dressing room, disgusted, and move on to the Jessica Simpson Princys. Hmm, size 9? Like the size I really wear? And they fit? Who cares that I despise Jessica Simpson on principle and would rather hack up a lung than support her dyed blonde dippy ass? These are size 9 and they fit! I'll take two.

About Me

This is me. And Hercules.

I am: a writer, a wife, a lover of sitcoms and good books.

I am not: religious, conservative or someone who tends to watch long, weepy movies.

Why am I starting a blog? Because I have lots of thoughts and every once in a while, I want to share those thoughts. Or at least organize them. This blog may turn into a diary, it may turn into a place to review books, or rant about politics or bitch about people without actually doing it to their faces. Who knows? I guess we'll find out.