Buying Jeans

I had to buy new jeans not too long ago, essentially because I suddenly discovered after more than twenty adult years that my body is flattered much more by jeans with a certain flair at the bottom. Maybe I won’t go all the way to bell bottoms, but a little extra fabric at shoe level works. The pair I’m wearing today has a little fortune stitched into the back, a sure sign that I’m too old to be wearing them—and they’re those low-rider ones that are all you can get now, more hip hugger than a jean with a waist. Mine says “Everyone is the architect of their own future,” which I liked enough that I looked through my size to find a second pair with the same logo (only after, by the way, the jeans had met my comfort and size and prize criteria first). I don’t like the fact that I can’t bend over or reach up without worrying about whether my very maternal and Rubenesque stomach is hanging out, but at least I look cool now—when my arms are down, anyway. Naturally these new jeans reinforce my idea that all women’s clothes are made for 18 year old girls, but I’m not bitter. Not me. Nope. Not one little bit.