Can we just take a moment to discuss the phenomenon called Skinny Jeans? WHAT IS GOING ON IN AMERICA? I know, I know, I need to hippify myself. It’s true. After the better part of the last decade devoted to getting pregnant, growing to astonishing sizes, having babies, remaining at astonishing sizes, and then gradually going back down in weight but in such an odd, lumpy way, my wardrobe suffered. My younger, very stylish sister came over recently and tried, at first diplomatically, to weed through what had become the Closet of Doom. She’d say things like, “Do you actually wear this?” and “Why is this in your closet when it first appeared during the Clinton administration?” By the end of her intervention, she’d say things like, “No. Non. Nyet. How will you best understand this? And did you get that in the juniors department?”
“Maybe,” I’d say and then toss it in the donate-to-real-life-juniors pile.
But the thing is, she was absolutely right. I needed help. Times have changed, people! My worn and loved St. Olaf sweatshirt, for example, does not flatter a chest that has nursed three babies and now points downward when it points at all. Clog-like shoes were great for teaching Spanish to high schoolers around the time of Y2K, but it was time for them to visit the great clog depository in the sky. And now that I’m 34, it’s time to delve into the wild and unforgiving world of accessorizing. It sends chills. Really.
My sister did a great job. This is, in fact, her job. She helps the fashion-challenged and rights all our wrongs with a sweet smile and a willingness to work with any budget. I obeyed her with complete trust, nodding with uncharacteristic older sister submission, until she said with caution, “I think you should consider skinny jeans.”
I would have kicked her out of my house, but she’s related to me and the holidays loomed. Instead, I said simply, “Absolutely not and you should get off crack.”
This conversation went nowhere until I had a pile of jeans in a fitting room. I was nervous, friends. Visions of disaster scurried through my head, worrisome images like this:
I believe the “V” on the pocket stands for VERY, VERY HORRIBLY WRONG. And is she wearing tap shoes? As some sort of distraction technique?
But I soldiered on in that fitting room because when you have a hip sister who has never led you astray, you give her the benefit of the doubt. And reader, I bought a pair. OK, all right, they’re kind of almost-skinny jeans. Skinny jeans for the nervous. They do NOT hug my ankles and even flare just a bit. But, incredibly, I like them! I wear them! And even Marc thinks they’re sassy and cute. This from the man whose last words to me before leaving on my shopping trip were, “Just don’t buy those disgusting skinny jeans.” Of course, we’ve all seen what HE’S been wearing, so….
So I succumbed, but only in an age- and body-appropriate manner. Watch out, fashion world. I’m taking you by storm! Sounds like a lot of walking….Wish I still had my clogs.
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