There are things in life that are worse than shopping for new jeans. But not very many. I can’t believe I actually looked forward to getting a new pair of jeans today. I know I’ve been jeans-shopping in the past few years; I have at least 25 pairs hanging in my closet. But today’s experience was so miserable that I felt like it was the first time in 10 years.
I’m not exactly sure how I cannot fit into any of my four different size choices already in my closet, while the pair I bought is right smack in the middle of all of those sizes. I guess it’s a combination of outdated styles paired with the shrinkage factor that makes my nose wrinkle when I’m standing so hopelessly in the middle of my closet. That, and the fact that my body got rearranged after birthing two children. I really was quite satisfied with it before.
So I brought my little stash of cash to the city with the plan to buy one pair of jeans, one pair of shoes, and a silver necklace. I had secretly hoped to have a little left over to either buy another one of the aforementioned items, or even to stick back in my Macbook Pro savings envelope, which yet remains empty. After one look at the low-rise cuts in the juniors’ section, I headed straight back out of the department store and into my second favorite clothier–Ann Taylor. (My first favorite is Harold’s, which I just realized this summer.) I was a little sticker-shocked at nearly a hundred bucks a pair, but I had the cash, and I was desperate for some good-fitting jeans. But no such luck. The only cut I liked this go round was the only one they didn’t have in my size. Bummer.
If I had had all day, I would have just enjoyed the adventure of hunting for a stylish cut of denim that fit my body and my pocketbook. But no–I had my little ring-tale-tooter slinging raisins everywhere and swinging the DoodlePro around the wheels of the stroller. And not to mention a husband and son wondering around the mall and coming back in FORTY-FIVE minutes. That’s not even long enough to make it to the dressing room with an armload of jeans while wielding an umbrella stroller and swatting a two-year-old one-handed!
So I slapped back on the flared jeans I was wearing from my college days and headed back down to the women’s section of the department store. I am a woman, after all. Seeing the word Missy on my clothing gives me cold chills, but hey–my hips aren’t exactly the junior version they once were. Once I got there, I immediately felt panic creeping up my middle. There were no less than 200 different styles to choose from, none of them familiar to me. Why had I not just journeyed down to my tried and true Gap, or hopped in the car for Old Navy? But no–thirty minutes left, and still no boots or silver necklace either. It was do or die.
Fifteen pairs of jeans later I finally put on one that fit the bill, and you’ll never believe how much they were–$35!! I have NEVER. I just knew I’d have enough left for at least two pairs of shoes. The rest of the shopping trip went really down hill, since my narrow, painful feet usually require mountain-sized piles of empty shoe boxes, shoe stuffing scattered everywhere, and one or maybe two frustrated salesmen. And I had only 10 minutes left. After a whirlwind of shoe-shopping, I proceeded to buy the most expensive pair of shoes I have EVER owned.
Given enough time, I could have shopped around town and bought three good pairs of shoes for that. But also given that I had 10 minutes before I left civilization again, I chose to purchase the really nice shoes that FIT, rather than go home with nothing but money. What good is it laying in an envelope anyway? So I was really grateful for those thirty-five-dollar jeans. The price made the experience a little less painful.
