My jeans are too tight and the world is over. At least for the next half an hour.
Want to know the easiest way to ruin your day? Just try on those blue jeans you’ve been hiding in the back of your closet, you know, the ones you’ve been waiting to try on again until you “get skinny”. We all have them, those clothes that are too tight but we can’t let go. My too tight jeans are hanging behind the winter coats, the rain gear and the special occasion dress that I bought, spent way too much money on and have never worn but hang onto it anyway, tags still attached.
I’ve kept these jeans because, God help me, one day I’ll have them on again. I’ll make these skinny jeans my bitch. (And these jeans are definitely not those dreaded Mom Jeans that are now back in style. Yes, here’s my rant on those heinous denim babies, but I digress…)
Today was the day, I just felt it. It was a beautiful morning. I’d had plenty of coffee, checked my emails, already accomplished a few things on my To Do list. This was the morning. I felt it. The moment of wardrobe truth.
I dug the denim out of the back of my closet, where I’d hidden them. A pair of Paige denim peg skinny jeans in a dark rinse in all their magical butt enhancing, Nordstrom purchased, denim awesomeness.
I’ve been working out, eating (pretty) well, and (trying) not to drink too much Sauvignon Blanc at night. I’ve lost a few pounds, not bloated. I was feeling pretty good. I was cocky.
I tugged and pulled them on (they are skinny jeans after all), and did that strange kicking, Irish step dancing move to shimmy them up over my butt. A little bead of sweat formed on my upper lip. I got them on. So far, so good. And then, I exhaled.
Not good. The jeans were on, technically, but if I wanted to be able to sit, maybe breathe, or be able to digest food, these jeans were not an option. Too much me and not enough jeans. More sausage casing than jeans.
The jeans are too tight. My good day was officially over. Done. Over, and it wasn’t even 8:30 No matter what happened today, everything else after this was a warm pile of poo.
Win the lottery? Score an invite to tea with Kate and William? Whatever, my pants are too tight. I’m cranky. Leave me alone.
After a small, slight temper tantrum in my closet, a string of F bombs and other random cuss words, the jeans are now hanging in the back of the closet again.
Taunting me. I know they are there.
I should know better by now. The surest way to ruin a good day? Put on a pair of pants that are too tight, and everybody else, get the hell out of the way.