They were everywhere for what felt like an eternity. They clothed the cool and fashionable mom at school drop off, the one who always seemed so together and had the impossible measurements of a Barbie doll. They looked equally as fabulous on the twenty-something who helped you pick them out, promising you’d be able to pull them off, too. She was wrong.
To wear them you had to either be six feet tall and in perfect shape or a young girl. They favor the long-legged and tall. I am neither. I have a long torso and stand at just five feet. But, Skinny Jeans were the ‘it’ thing. Even my eight-year-old wanted them because they apparently meant third grade popularity, along with Spaghettios. The thought made me shudder as she asked for them for her upcoming birthday. But as I searched stores in the mall, something joyous happened. The fickle-fingered-fashion world pointed to skinny jeans and said, “You’re out.”
Skinny jeans, here are just a few reasons I’m happy to see you go.
You are not made for the curves of my baby-making body. With each child my hips have widened to carry and birth babies. Had you come along in my twenties before kids and the ravages of both gravity and time, maybe I would have been more receptive. You see, it’s not you I take issue you with, but rather your tight nature.
You are clingier than my two-year-old. And not nearly as flattering or cute. He at least does not accentuate my muffin top. Instead, when I carry him, his body covers the fat roll which, in fact, is a necessity as it acts as a small shelf for his thirty-pound body to rest on.
You cause camel toe, and I no longer enjoy fishing fabric out of my lady bits. I don’t think I ever did. I may have caved into the pressure in my younger years, but I am done with that. I no longer wear thongs either. I have given them up for the comfy, fuller fit of real underwear. They are cotton, they are breathable, and they don’t ride up my back or frontside.
While my new mommy underwear are comfy, you don’t seem as fond of them as I. Your outright animosity is evident. They look foolish when worn with your skin-sucking material, their outline visible as the cotton material gathers and bunches, defeating the purpose of comfy granny-panties.
I hate fighting with you. You know what I mean. I pull and pull, but you never give an inch. You are unforgiving; you won’t budge. I eventually fall on the bed and cry, wondering why you continue to taunt me. I rest and try again, wondering why I don’t simply toss you into the Goodwill pile with all the other clothing I no longer fit into or want. Why do you hate me, Skinny Jeans? Why?
You look fabulous with riding boots and long sweaters, which make you seem flattering when, in fact, you are the exact opposite. The boots and sweaters are the reasons I have kept you around for so long. They have saved your ass for months, but no more. Even they are beginning to turn on you. They look just as amazing with leggings, and I don’t have to fight with them. Leggings like me. They get me because they not only accept my flaws, but they embrace them as well.
Skinny Jeans, we are finished. The time has come for us all to move on with the next great thing. I hear boot cut is back. I hope that’s true. They are so comfy, so roomy, so great with my new underwear. Maybe someone will find you at Goodwill and bring you home.
You better pray it’s not a mom, you motherfucker.