I’ve about had it with Mom Jeans, or whatever other moniker has been put on those denim (or denim-knit) jean-like pants that every woman over 40 who’s had babies reluctantly tries on and inevitably buys because nothing else even remotely fits.
I used to work in retail. I know jeans, especially Mom Jeans (though of course, we didn’t call them that in the store I worked for). You know the ones – they hold your tummy in while cutting you off at the waist. Or, the zipper is two inches long, the waistband is now hugging your bladder (which has dropped and is protruding due to those darling monsters you call children), and your belly fat slops over the top of the jean. They’ve changed the zipper only because they’re trying to lure in the 30-something women who normally don’t shop in the boutique stores but who do wear almost mons-baring jeans. (They’re still shopping in Forever 21. No, seriously.)
When you do get a pair of jeans that makes you look somewhat the way you did 30 years ago, they stretch. Slowly, insidiously, until wearing them the third day, you’re tugging them up over your ass every five minutes so you don’t look like a gang-banger with your undies showing. (Because you don’t think the people on the street need to know you still enjoy wearing thong underwear even though you’re over 50/not skinny anymore. Yes, thong underwear DOES come in large sizes, thankyouverymuch.)
Where was I? Oh yeah. So, in order to get these jeans to fit correctly, you have to get them a size smaller. Doesn’t matter what size you REALLY are – because the boutique stores’ sizes are all fucked up anyway. You climb into the size-smaller pair of jeans, suck in your stomach, blow out all the air of your lungs, stand on tiptoe, and TUG LIKE HELL to get the zipper up. Once you do, and after hastily dropping your somewhat-billowy shirt down to cover the fat rolls poking over the top, you do a fanny check.
Niiice. Not airbrushed, no spanx, but your fanny looks smooth. Firm. The jeans slim your legs down (or, if you’re on the thin side, make them look shapely), are long enough to wear a slight heel on those days you feel daring, yet won’t drag too horribly when you wear flats.
So you can’t breathe. Get over it, you’ll be able to breathe in two or three hours. And just think, in three days, your waistband won’t be hugging your asscheeks because they stretched too much, so you get more wearability with less washing (depending on how dirty your typical jeans-wearing activies are, of course).
You think, ah. Jeans Nirvana. After several hours in several different stores, you finally – FINALLY – find the right pair. After checking out the price tag (GULP – over a hundred bucks?!!), you reluctantly put the second pair back. Or, conversely, you buy a second pair, rationalizing that they never go on sale so may as well bite the bullet while you’ve still got room on your credit card and while you still fit into this ridiculous size that isn’t really your size but woo, it’s a small number.
Everything seems to be going well – until you’re wearing them for the first time in your real world day. Stressed, late for work, too much to carry – you go to shove your cell into one pocket and your small travel coffee cup into another pocket so you can get everything to the car in one trip. But the pockets? They’re not big enough for your HAND, much less your cell phone. While the beloved jeans of your youth had pockets that went deep, and could handle that coffee cup, these jeans don’t.
Oh Mr. Levi, or Mr. Wrangler, or heck, the Gap – can one of you PLEASE come up with a Mom Jean that makes me slim, beautiful, eliminates the rolls of fat, has nice deep pockets but doesn’t look strange from the front, and will also shove my bladder back where it belongs, permanently?
I’d so spend a hundred bucks for a pair of jeans like that.
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DEMON SOUL is out – have you read it yet? DEMON HUNT coming this summer!