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. http://www.tummytuckjeans.com.
Fuck you NMDJ’s. Fuck you.
“Honey” say I, as I re-enter our minuscule office with foot hopping haste, “there is a bug in the kids bathroom I am going to need you to take care of.”
“Really?” He says. “Is it ugly or something?”
“Oh, you’ll see, just get in there now please.”
He heads into the bathroom immediately.
“Wow, that is the biggest bug I have ever seen outside a zoo! What do you think it is?” He exclaims in scientific wonder and interest.
“I am not sure, but if I had to guess, I would say a beetle.” I respond, not caring about its nature as much as its removal.
“Do you think it’s a cockroach?” He asks, unthinkingly bringing up the monster of all uber-procreating pests in reference to this easily two inch long, inch in diameter insect hanging out on my kids bathroom floor. (Nightmare sized insect, as in, do not need a magnifying glass to see distinguishing features while standing above it. Eep!!)
“Nope, it’s a beetle for sure. Not a cockroach.” Memories of my grandmother muttering something about if you see one cockroach, there are thousands more in the walls that you can’t see running around in my head.
“I don’t know honey, looks kind of like a cockroach.” He continues, clueless as to my concern over the damage our house will inevitably suffer when the Men in Black come to do battle with the alien beetles hiding in our bathroom walls.
“Nope. Saw it. Definitely not a cockroach. Definitely a beetle.”
Doesn’t he get it? If it’s a beetle then we don’t have a potential infestation problem, a beetle just randomly wanders into the house through a tear in a screen or something. It’s an outlier, a bit of nature come to visit your home. A cockroach is an indicator of something darker, a deeper problem, an invasion of your space. A cockroach means months of extra cleaning and traps, and worst of all, dealing with more cockroaches. I can tell you now, there is no way in hell I am dealing with an infestation of roaches this size, I will fucking move back in with my parents. This is a nightmare sized beetle.
“Definitely a beetle.” I say, in a tone that simply can no longer be missed as a signal that he should probably not query the nature of the insect again.
“It’s a big sucker isn’t it!” he says again, admiring the engineering of such a large creepy crawlie. “I don’t really want to kill it.”
“You don’t have to kill it, you can put it outside, so long as you put it far, far away outside.” I mention cheerfully, hoping the admiration for the gargantuan example of insect-hood will soon end and the removal process will soon begin. Dead, alive, dissected, I don’t care so long as it is out of my house and I don’t have to touch it to do it!!! Isn’t that one of the reasons I married him? So I can call on him for huge creepy insect removal duty when I don’t want to summon the will to “get over it” and do it myself? Sheesh!!!
“Come here little guy, let’s get you back out where you belong” he says, as he gathers up the beast and carries it out the door to freedom, and most likely death by pigeon.