Welcome to my completely uncensored and random stream of thoughts which are probably not interesting at all – but you clearly have nothing else to do right now otherwise you wouldn't be here? So stay a while! xoxo
Let me catch you up to speed by explaining my picture above:
Pile #1: Jeans that legit don’t fit anymore (17 pairs)
Pile #2: Jeans that fit, but hurt (2 pairs)
Pile #3: Jeans that fit and don’t hurt (1 pair – as in uno, lone, single, solo, solitary)
Pile #4: Jeans that have never fit and I’ve never worn – tags on, but bought anyway because they were super cute and were going to provide me with motivation to work out more and/or eat less (2 pairs).
THANK GOD FOR PILE #3. 🙏
Ya’ll please. This is insanity. I keep ALL these jeans. I can’t bring myself to let any of the ones that ‘no longer fit’ go because they USED TO FIT. I’ve worn every single pair at some point. All 17! I loved each of them for their own special reasons. Perfect low cut. Perfect back pocket design. Perfect discoloration. Perfect length for heels. Perfect length for flats. Perfect man made holes. Every pair – Just. Perfect. I can’t get rid of the ones that ‘fit but hurt’ because I’m SOOO close to zipping them up without jumping or using a wire hanger. (My ladies from the 80s know what I’m talking about! If you didn’t need a hanger to get that zipper up, your jeans weren’t tight enough.) But in 5 – 10 pounds, I’m gold! Gold, I tell ya! Also, I can’t get rid of the ones ‘I’ve never been able to wear’ because that just makes me a quitter and a spend thrift, right?
So they all stay. 🤷♀️ Insanity.
Now, full disclosure – I had two pairs of jeans in Pile #3. Recently and reluctantly, I had to say goodbye to one of them. 😢 The beginning of the end started a little while back when I was being seated at The Cheesecake Factory (shocking) and felt an odd sensation upon sitting down. I could feel the seat touching my ass. Directly. That’s weird, right? Awkwardly, I stood up, turned around and asked the person sitting across from me if there was something wrong with my pants. Making it even more awkward– it happened to be my older brother. He then had to inform me that the ‘problem’ was that my ass was hanging out of my pants. Awesome. My brother has now seen my ass. Sigh. “How bad is it?” I asked him.
So you can see, it wasn’t even a tiny rip – it went down half my right cheek. That sitch pretty much ended all the errands I had planned post lunch. But y’all – I LOVED these jeans. SO MUCH. They were my perfect holey ones that, let me stress, didn’t hurt. So, I continued to wear them but just made damn sure I wore a blouse that would cover my backside (as seen here when I was heading to the NKOTB concert. Yes, NKOTB. Because I’m cool. What?).
But the butt ‘hole’ kept getting larger and larger. Not only did it eventually work its way up to my waist as well as down the remainder of the pocket, it widened. This was not good. Thankfully a dear friend – and you’d have to be a dear friend to extend this, offered to patch up the backside since I was having anxiety over the idea of giving up my favorite jeans. SHE OFFERED TO PATCH MY BUTT. Y’all … this job was SOLID. It was like when you get a hernia repair and they tell you that spot is actually stronger now than before. I was set. Crisis averted! (High five, Mindy! 🖐 And super-duper thanks!!! Muah!!!😘)
Sadly, in an unfortunate turn of events, all was well until I ‘turned the other cheek’ so to speak and the left side ripped wide open. This rip…. (moment of silence) ended the career of these jeans because it split from ass to knee. FROM. ASS. TO. KNEE. There’s not a patch big enough to handle that chasm. The material of my jeans clearly had been crying out in pain. Screaming, if you will. It’s like they honestly gave up because they couldn’t handle the pressure anymore – literally!
So, I’m down to one pair that I can wear. It’s become my uniform the past three months. If you happened to see me in person this summer and I was outfitted in jeans – that’s them! And if anything happens to these, I honestly don’t know what I would do. Perhaps be relegated to shut-in status at my house until pajama bottoms in public become an acceptable form of dress? I know…I know…. “Buy another pair. Go up a size.” Blah blah blah. Yada yada yada. Shut the hell up. I CAN’T. I REFUSE. Because of PILES NUMBER 1, 2 and 4!!!! Seriously, there is quite the current investment of denim sitting in my closet as we speak. I’m not getting another pair when I, in theory, can get off my enlarged ass and get back INTO one of the NINETEEN FREAKING PAIRS mocking me from my closet.
So there’s that.
I was running errands one day this summer and an associate in a store asked me, “Aren’t you hot in those jeans?” As I disbelievingly stared at this woman knowing it was a 114 degrees outside, two scenarios played out in my head as possible responses. First option: Punch her in the throat for making an idiotic comment. Second option: Scream “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I’m on freaking fire, lady! But it’s the only freaking thing I can fit into right now THAT DOESN’T FREAKING HURT so thanks a shit ton for making me feel self-conscious about it when it’s literally like walking on the freaking sun outside.”
Editor’s Note: The word ‘freaking’ has replaced a more authentic but non family friendly word.
Instead I went for option three: the non confrontational but socially appropriate response of laughing in a self deprecating tone, while answering ‘They’re comfy?” 🤷♀️
Now, in case you think it’s just my arse that has exploded, rest assured that the remaining parts of my body have joined in on the fun. I call this the “Sports Bra Kicker” part of the story. You’re welcome in advance.
Most women, I assume, have a ‘fat section’ in their closet – even if they aren’t fat. I know there are some skinny b*tches that normally wear size 2 but when they feel particularly bloated pull out that shameful size 4 and hope nobody notices. Please tell me you can see my eye roll. Boo. Hoo. But we can at least relate in our own way. (Even you men – I know what it means when you wear a shirt untucked. Your denial in weight gain has resulted in an entire brand being created where ‘untucked’ is now fashionable. Case in point: https://www.untuckit.com. All I can say is “Well done, boys. Well done.”👏👏 And – fun fact, if you click on the link you’ll get 20% off your first order. No need to thank me. 😘) But back to me – my fat clothes have categories. I have them in every genre – including work out wear. This one sports bra in particular I almost got rid of two years ago when I lost weight. It was so big and loose it didn’t support the ‘girls’ anymore when I would go running. (Yes, I run… ish. Leave me alone.) Let me say that again though and listen carefully to what I’m saying:
I almost gave it away because it was SO BIG it was no longer functional.
Another way to put this? It was a vacation for the seams.
Here is what happens when I wear it now. 😳
Y’all…do you know how hard it is to take off a tight sports bra when you are sweaty?? It’s worse than peeling a screaming toddler from your leg at church drop off. Did I even take it off though or am I still wearing it? You can’t tell!
Is that blood?
Ugh. For the love.
So these are my current issues that I’m dealing with in regards to my clothing. Screw you 40s. I’m not buying bigger sizes!!!!!!! I’M. NOT! 🤬
Anyone want to go to Cheesecake Factory? Asking for a friend. 😔🙄🙋♀️