(Not So) Skinny Jeans

Back in December of last year, I decided that I needed to get new jeans.  I was planning a girls’ night out with one of my friends and some other girls, and I wanted to look cute.  But no such luck!  The jeans I had on hand suffered from two fatal flaws:

1.)  They were atrociously out of date, and visibly so.  I think I had purchased one of my four existing pairs when we lived in Toronto, which would have been before 2002.  2002!  Can you even remember 2002?  It’s so long ago, there’s probably already a VH1 “I love the 2000s” episode about it.  And my 2002 jeans loudly screamed 2002 – they were faded, torn, low-rise, slightly fitted but with a boot cut… think the full-length version of the Cindy Crawford Pepsi ad denim shorts and you’ve nailed it.  And it’s quite possible that they were bought well before we moved to Cleveland in 2002, which means they may very well have been from the late 1990s - i.e. an entirely different millennium.  [Cue gasps of shock and horror from my fashion-forward friends.]  It was embarrassing to wear them out to any venue other than WalMart, where they were still (sadly) fashionable.  They most definitely were not girls-night-out material.

2.)  They didn’t fit.  Since I really only ever bought jeans (or any other clothing) when I was at my smallest or biggest size, I had nothing in my drawer that actually fit my current body properly.  As a result, I could either wear atrociously outdated jeans that were literally falling off (we can discuss the fact that I didn’t own any belts some other time), or atrociously outdated muffin-top-producing jeans.  Either way, unless I’m in WalMart, not good.  And we were going to be at a bar, dancing and drinking… which meant either my pants would fall off in the middle of the dance floor or I would be in pain from wearing the modern equivalent of an über-tight corset for the entire night.

As a result of these flaws, I deemed my jeans wholly unacceptable for public viewing.  Quite honestly, I wasn’t even happy wearing them to WalMart, as I have a near-pathological fear of being featured on the “People of WalMart” website.  (Because I do not own track pants that say “Juicy” across the butt, the odds that I would be featured on the site are low.  But still… those guys are brutal, and I generally take a “better safe than sorry” approach when it comes to potential online photographic humiliation.)  Further complicating facts, I was scheduled to go to Vegas for a girls weekend in February, so would definitely need something a bit more club-ready by then.  So one dreary day in December, I set out with the mission of buying some new jeans – specifically, what the young whippersnappers refer to as "skinny jeans."

Of course, this begs the question of whether I, at the tender age of #^, should be wearing something called "skinny jeans" (or "skinny" anything) to begin with.  But rather than get hung up on trivial details, I forged ahead.  (Please ignore the fact that this is precisely the type of question I usually obsess about.  Let’s just assume for the sake of argument that I was able to rationalize it quickly and efficiently, and answer in the affirmative.)  Skinny jeans were on my radar, and come hell or high water, I would find some!

I hit the mother lode at Nordstrom Rack.  (Thanks, Jules, for the suggestion!)  There, I found not one but five pairs that fit, looked good, were reasonably comfortable, and were well-priced.  They were skinny without being gross – no muffin top! – and they made my butt look pretty cute, if I do say so myself.  But I couldn’t justify buying five pairs of jeans, skinny or otherwise, so instead bought just two pairs – one that had some “just got out of a knife fight and boy, am I charged up and ready to party” detailing, and one that had slightly classier rivet thingies by the front pockets. 

Armed with my new skinny jeans, I was now able to wear cute tops and shoes.  Gone was the need to pair my potentially-pre-Y2K jeans with a long, baggy sweater (which I used to cover up as much of the jeans as humanly possible).  Finally, I could wear a tissue-weight tunic t-shirt, or, for a slightly sluttier (sorry, Dad… what I meant to say was “more feminine”) look, a sweet little lace draped tank!  Gone was the need to wear hiking sneakers or flip flops (to make it look like I wasn’t trying – i.e. to make it look like I didn’t care that my jeans were ridiculously unfashionable).  I could wear my Uggs, or I could wear “more feminine” biker boots with wicked spike heels, or I could even wear ballet flats!  Real, normal person shoes!  Who thought such a thing was possible?  For me?  At #^?

Alas, like everything else in life (and especially with fashion), all good things must come to an end, or at least, become obsolete in one way or another.  Since buying my awesome-like-a-possum skinny jeans, I have once again run into a problem… but this time, it’s a problem I’m (somewhat) glad to have.  I’ve lost weight, and am down at least one, maybe two sizes from where I was just three months ago.  As a result, my skinny jeans are just jeans.  Oh, they’re still cute – cuter than my old ones, for sure.  And they still make my butt look pretty good.  But since they hang a little low and are saggy-baggy in the thighs, they don’t look entirely right.  I know, I know.  Nice problem to have, right? 

I suppose I could just buy some Girl Scout cookies and fill them back out, but then my “more feminine” tops might not look as good.  Or I could try to bring back the early 2000s with my smaller-sized boot-cuts… flip flops and hiking shoes, here I come!  Or, I could just paste the word “Juicy” on my ass and head to WalMart.  All viable options, no doubt. 

On second thought… I think I’ll just head to Nordstrom.