Two years ago I found the perfect pair of blue jeans. I love them. I love them the way I love ice cream on hot summer days or smiles from strangers. They make me feel good because they’re perfect. They’re a dark-wash that makes colored shirts pop and my thighs shrink as if by magic. None of my other jeans compare. But even though I’d like to grow old with them, I know I can’t have a monogamous relationship with my perfect pants. I need to find new ones, but shopping has been torture.Not only is nothing as magical as my no-longer-made Express Slim Fit X2′s, but also nothing fits. I’ve been to the Gap, Anthropologie, J. Crew, and tried on every single pair of jeans that claims to be my size at Macy’s. And even after this citywide scavenger hunt, I’m still coming up empty. It’s like a screwed-up Goldilocks story. This one’s too big in the waist, this one’s too tight in the thighs, and nothing works. It’s like the fashion gods are trying to taunt me. Like I’ve committed some horrible fashion crime, and now I’m reaping the awful consequences for my sins. But I don’t know what I did.
Every time I step into a fluorescent-lit dressing room, I tug hopefully on the jeans that looked so adorable on the mannequin, and it happens. They don’t fit. Maybe they match my waist perfectly, but they’re trying to constrict and pop my femoral artery with dark-wash cotton. Maybe the thighs are wonderful and free, but the room left in the waist would safely accommodate two of me. I feel grotesque, malformed, and hideous. Just how big do these designers think my legs are? Am I a Godzilla, stomping around the city, destroying the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and babies under the girth of my enormous thighs? Did I decimate Tokyo while I was asleep?
I swear, fashion gods, I’m a nice person. A nice, reasonably sized human being who just wants some pants. Cute pants, but still, I don’t think I’m begging too big of a boon. At least part of me knows that I’m not the problem. I know I’m shaped like a normal adult female, and I never used to have this problem because, when I was younger, I was, as Bridget Jones would say, a stick-insect. Stick-insects get pants. But now that I’m a lady, with lady hips and thighs, I still think I deserve some nice blue jeans.
Otherwise, fashion gods, I’m gonna be pantsless. Like Lindsay Lohan. And nobody wants that.