My name is Scylla, and I am a workaholic…

I have decided to stop fighting it though. I am firmly ensconced in the time of life I am going to refer to as “The Sad and Sober Part” in deference to Louisa May Alcott. Since I get more peace and enjoyment out of working, networking, and being with my family than I do out of almost anything else I am allowing myself to focus on working for a while. Maybe I am a workaholic but I seem to be self medicating so I better not interfere.

For the third weekend in a row I will be spending my Saturday night at a networking event. I am excited and looking forward to meeting a lot of people who can help me guide my way to a successful practice. I am thrilled to have a shiny new Le Suit hanging in my closet waiting to turn me from a jammie clad super mom into a sleek and successful attorney. I even have a sexy, yet professional, hairstyle to try out. I will wander the halls of the Nature and Science Museum with lawyers and judges dedicated to helping people.

I am so lucky to be involved in a professional community with so many people interested in making the world a better place. I know everyone thinks lawyers are scum and that our system would be better off without them but I have rarely met more dedicated activists outside my profession.

True superheros carry a briefcase.

Your ingenious marketing ploy makes me feel fat…

After having children clothes don’t fit my body the way they used to. I recognize part of this is due to the extra pounds I carry around as a result of a sedentary job and a love of all things bread. However, part of it is due to the fact that certain muscles stretched out beyond their normal capacity and may never return to their previously gorgeous ultra flat condition.

In other words, I have a pooch.

Jean shopping since the advent of the ultra-low-rise-guaranteed-to-give-you-plumber-butt-or-a-horrid-muffintop-no-matter-how-much-you-starve-yourself jean has been fairly impossible. None of the low rise jeans fit me in any flattering way and all of the “traditional fit” jeans are made of flimsy denim, cost 10 bucks and make me feel categorically uncool.

I have been touring the jean rack at Ross for months now. My only awesome pair of ultra luxurious designer french jeans came from Ross and I have stalked their jean aisle religiously ever since in the hope of finding another pair like them. (Especially now that I have worn that one luxurious pair for years now and must retire it due to huge rips, tears, and thin spots.)

While touring the jean aisle this time my fingers happened upon a thick and luxurious denim in my size. Soft deep blue fabric rested heavily in my arms as I carried them to the fitting room. The jeans fit beautifully. My ass looked great, I didn’t have a muffin top, and I could move around in all positions without feeling any restriction. Perfect! I removed the jeans feeling damn sexy and pleased to once again own a pair of jeans that made me feel really good wearing them.

Then I saw the tag. I am sure the marketing geniuses who came up with the brand name and web address thought they were appealing to my sense of outrage at the ridiculous rail thin models shoved in front of my face at every fashion turn. I am positive they were trying to create a sense of female solidarity and tell me they were taking the time to make jeans that really fit real women really well. What they did was drain the pleasure from my shopping experience.

“Not My Daughter’s Jeans” may as well read “Mom Pants” or “Uncool and dated jeans” or “Too busy parenting to bother with looking good denim”. Seriously. I don’t want to be buying jeans marketed to mothers even though I recognize I need jeans designed for women who have had babies. I want to wear jeans marketed to Catherine Zeta Jones or Angelina Jolie or to women who are traveling to exotic places and dancing in fancy nightclubs. I want to buy jeans that tell me I am still hot and desirable even if my kids will ultimately use them as a kleenex.

My previous sense of self satisfaction gone I reminded myself that they looked damn good on me and the tag, NMDJ, was both discreet and located on the inside of my waistband.

Then I found the tag with their web address on it.

Fuck you NMDJ’s. Fuck you.