I'm fairly particular about my jeans. I know what style I like and get them from the same place. A good pair of jeans is also my luxury item and I tend to spend about 2000% more than my budget allows. This sound vastly more impressive than it is because, being a mostly unemployed mother of 4, my budget per item of clothing for myself runs to about $4.50.
I'm sure as many of you know a good pair of jeans can make you feel a little younger, a little perkier and a few kilos lighter on a good day. A definite confidence boost when you're the wrong side of 40 and perkiness isn't something to take for granted anymore. So imagine my horror when my faithful jeans turned on me.
A few months ago, I took advantage of a sale and bought a brand new pair, they were a little snug at the time but I didn't really need them yet and as I was intending to save them for dressy jeans I convinced myself that by the time I was ready to wear them I would have whittled away at my muffin top. My life isn't exactly a whirlwind of social engagements and high heels so it was a few months before I had reason to break out my as yet unworn "good" jeans. The occasion? A friends 40th. Planning ahead I decided to wear the aforementioned jeans in, give them a bit of a trial run so to speak. I wiggled them up as far as my thighs and........ nothing, they wouldn't budge. I yanked some more and nearly passed out pulling a muscle in my neck. I dampened down the panic and reassured myself that new jeans were always a little tight and encouragement was often all that was needed. I lay on the bed and heaved and sucked and pulled and struggled, eventually getting them over my hips. Determined to persevere despite being a little light headed and short of breath I pulled the zip and did the button. A feat not as easy as it sounds since, what had once been a muffin top was now a tyre tube obliterating my view of anything below my boobs. Sadly not made of just stomach fat but the fat that had been squeezed from my thighs and hips and had absolutely nowhere to go but up. Refusing to admit that I had clearly outgrown a size 10 and was in desperate need of a size 18 and hoping to teach myself a lesson in portion control I headed out to do the groceries, a billowing jumper in place to hide an appalling case of camel toe. By the time I got to the car 30 minutes later, a strange shade of blue and gasping for tiny lungful's of breath I was frantic to return feeling to my legs and would have undone the zip and button if I hadn't already undone them in aisle 2. Driving home without bending at the waist impressed even me no end and is something I hope not to have to repeat.
Every cloud has a silver lining, so they say, and mine that day was peeling off those nightmare jeans and pulling on a stretched, elastic pair of trackie pants.
My relief was so overwhelming I giggled with joy. I would however like to take this opportunity to thank the person responsible for the design of elastic waisted stretch pants. You are truly one of life's unsung hero's.
