Category Archives: Feeling Sorry for Myself

Favorite Jeans Destroyed, Sassy Faces Soul-Crushing Search for Another Pair

I’m no fashion maven, but I have noticed that ripped jeans have made something of a comeback. Many years ago, I wore ripped up jeans as a symbol of my contempt for polite society (that and because all the cool kids were wearing them). Seeing the young people sport this trend fills me with a certain nostalgia, and so I suppose I should have been happy when my favorite jeans went from worn to torn.

Unfortunately instead of saying nonconformity, my jeans say, “Hey! She’s wearing hot pink underpants!”

Yep. My favorite jeans bit the denim dust.

My nostalgia has been replaced with dread. You know that statistic about women having to try on a gazillion pairs of jeans before finding one that fits? For me, it’s two gazillion.

It all starts with the length. While my legs are long for my height (five feet, three inches), my inseam is smack dab in between petite and regular. Petites fit like capris, and it looks like I have made an embarrassing faux pas (rhymes with “hamel foe”). I try on regulars, and the crotch hangs down to my knees and I trip all over myself. I don’t mind rolling a bit, but I’d rather not look like I’ve pooed my pants. Searching for a pair that mitigates the four-inch difference between the standard sizes takes all my shopping patience. Once that issue is resolved, however, I have other problems.

Most jeans for women are really made for fourteen-year-old boys. As I am, in fact, a woman, I happen to have hips. And an ass. I like my curves (and I’m not alone), but designers seem to think that I should take a chainsaw to them in order to fit into their jeans. By the time I find something that is both the right length and will fit my hips, the legs billow out, and I look like a blue grocery bag. It takes another soul-crushing eon to find something that shows that I have legs and not logs.

And then, there’s the style. I’m not twenty-one anymore, but neither am I forty-five. I want something that looks perfect whether I’m hitting the town or going to the coffee shop. The color is important, as is the overall detail. There’s nothing worse than the wrong pair of jeans. I should know. I have at least four pairs in my closet, purchased in desperation or exhaustion after deluding myself into thinking that I’ll like them once I get them home. 

Last, but by all means not least (especially now), is the price. I’m unemployed. It doesn’t make a lick of sense to go out and drop a huge chunk of change on jeans. But style and fit don’t come cheap, so I’m not sure what to do about that. I do visit the discount racks, but with all of the above stacked against me, I rarely have any luck.

Sigh. Maybe I’ll just stick with skirts.


This sucks! I moved out of Smalltownland in order to get my life back. No sooner do I move here, I fucking tore a fucking muscle, resulting in my basically having to spend every fucking night at home for fucking weeks. My leg’s still not better, but this past week, I have been walking well enough that I made tons of plans. With the exception of a very fun Grey’s evening with Carissa and another new friend, every single fucking plan fell through. Here’s my week:

Casual date with McI Tuesday—Cancelled on account of illness. Poor guy is still sick.
Dinner with friend—Double booked.
Drinks with another friend Friday night—Sister had her baby.
Saturday night/Sunday with out-of-town friend—Forgot she had made other plans.
Backup plan to go to art museum with sister today—Poor girl got a nasty allergy attack.

Result—Wind up in Casey’s last night chit-chatting with the middle-aged ladies and gently fending off the advance of a late-middle-aged guy and some other poor soul who couldn’t pronounce the title of the book I was reading while claiming to be really interested in the subject. I love Casey’s. It’s a great bar. Wonderfully close by, casual, comfortable, chock full of some of the most amazing characters. It’s a people watching extravaganza. They have good pizza, and they give you free popcorn. It’s a genuine townie bar—an endangered species these days. But it isn’t where I want to be on a Friday night.

Today I’ve done my best to amuse myself. I hung out at a café, had a late breakfast in a fantastic diner, went to a used bookshop and a couple of vintage clothing stores, and read. I’ll probably wind up going to some foreign film tonight.

I’m OK with doing things by myself. I enjoy it a lot of the time. But right now I’m so fucking frustrated that I feel like collapsing into a puddle of tears.

Oh, did I mention that it’s freezing cold and raining and it has been since Wednesday?

Or that Carissa, my dear co-worker and fellow Grey’s addict, is leaving me for the Promised Land of Seattle?