Is there any task more agonizing than buying women’s jeans? I would rather have been dipped into a vat of acid today than go hunt down a pair of jeans, but bravely off I went. I don’t know why women’s clothes can’t come in straightforward sizes based on waist and length measurements like men’s clothes, or why women’s designers torture us with arbitrary numbers that differ from brand to brand, rendering it necessary to carry 3 sizes of the same jeans into the fitting room to determine which one comes closest to fitting.
Being blessed with short legs (I say this sarcastically), I have the added difficulty of finding pants that don’t leave yards of fabric left after my legs have already ended. I took the first 2 pairs into the fitting room, the exact same size as the pair I was wearing, mind you, and do you think they fit in any way, shape or form? Of course not. One pair was 3 miles too long even though they were labelled as “short”, and the other pair simply ended right about midway up my butt….what the….? Apparently this is the trendy fit called “low-rise”, though I don’t find anything fashionable or desirable about permanent plumber’s ass and the perpetual itch to hitch up my pants.
They both went into the “hell no” pile.
I thought it should go without saying that an adult woman would not want jeans legs wide as stovepipes, bizarre glitter and sequin designs on the pockets or anywhere else, fabric that looks like someone else wore them about 20 times and brought them back (or else had an unfortunate incident with bleach), that prominently display my underwear, or have butterflies or anything else cutesy embroidered on the pockets or legs…whatever happened to plain, simple, just comfy jeans?
I had to settle for a pair that at least come up to my waist, aren’t bell-bottoms (boot cut has gotten a bit radical as of late; are they made to fit over moon boots, for god’s sake?), don’t droop halfway down my butt, but are at least 4 inches too long. I threw the white flag of defeat and decided I can hem the damn things.
Traumatic jeans shopping aside, today has been a fairly good day. Gary and I got up early, and before 11 AM, we had already been to the store and had cleaned the entire house top to bottom. I had to laugh (quietly) as Gary fussed at the cats for walking on the kitchen floor he had just mopped, leaving tiny little paw prints to mark their way. Of course the primary culprit was my kitten, who has a magnetic attraction to trouble. I have a hard time yelling at him, though, because I’ll never forget the nearly-dead, weak, starved baby he was when we found him, barely large enough to fill the palm of my hand. He was merely a dirty hide stretched over his bones that day, and we both think he’d have died that day if we didn’t come across him and take him home. A bath and a vet visit and a few meals later, he was hell on four paws, and grew so fast it was like he was making up for lost time. I look at him now, so healthy and beautiful, with a full, thick tail like a fox, and I get all sentimental and say “Remember when he fit in the palm of my hand?” He can be an aggravating pain in the butt, but when he bounds up to me and sticks that fuzzy, sweet face under my chin and purrs like a Mack truck, well, it’s a bit of a struggle to stay angry.
See what I mean??