I bought a couple of skirts yesterday. I love skirts. In fact, one of the many things that I miss about the 80′s was the pairing of skirts with Doc Marten boots, making both fashionable and yet comfortable at the same time.
I didn’t own blue jeans when I met my husband. When you have a hip-to-waist ratio like mine, it’s hard to find a pair that fits right in all the right places. Buy something that fits the hips, and the waist is loose enough to wedge a small child in there. Buy something that fits the waist, and you wind up with a camel-toed look in front and a cloven-hoofed look in the rear… if you can pull them up over your knees, that is.
Skirts with tights were my regular attire until one day when my then-Hubby-to-be suggestted a romantic walk in the woods. One muddy path, one misplaced foot, and one harrowing slide into a briar destroyed the “romance” of our walk. It also convinced me to buy some jeans.
Of course, budgets being what they are, that meant I stopped buying skirts. Soon, my closet featured nothing but jeans. Until yesterday, it still did. There are the size 6 ones I bought shortly after that fateful hike. I keep them around to remind me to try on clothes before leaving the store. One kid, two years of depression and countless Dove Bars later, I now own dozens of jeans ranging from size 8 to size “ate-too-much.”
Recently, I had a crying fit when the latter size stopped fitting. According to the scale, I’d lost six pounds, but my jeans were more snug than ever. I had to lay down and lift my hips, suck in my stomach, and puuuuuulllll to get a pair zipped. I couldn’t quite walk or breathe, but at least I got those suckers on. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a sweater bulky enough to disguise the overage. So, after peeling the jeans off, I drowned my distress in a stiff martini and gave the bathroom scale a good kick.
Two days later, as I laid all of my size “ate-too-much” jeans on the bed in preparation to pack them up for Goodwill, I noticed that a pair of blue jeans was significantly larger than the others. Strange. I recalled the day I bought them. It wasn’t that long ago. I’d liked the way they fit, so I’d also picked up a black pair by the same maker, in the same size. I’d worn the black pair several times — it goes with almost every top I own — but had only worn the blue ones once or twice. Sure enough, when I laid one pair on top of the other, the black jeans were 2 inches narrower and shorter. I hadn’t grown — they’d shrunk!
After performing the requisite happy dance, I apologized to my bathroom scale and resolved to stop putting my jeans in this rental condo’s crummy little apartment-sized dryer. I’d been bitching about the dryer the entire 2 months we’ve been here. It takes 1 hour and 45 minutes to dry a load of regular clothes, and another 30 minutes when the load contains jeans. Don’t know why I hadn’t thought about shrinkage before, but I was sure glad that I hadn’t abandoned my diet. I was also glad for the excuse to go shopping. Mall-walking is good exercise, you know.
At the store yesterday, I couldn’t find any jeans that I liked. It’s that hip-to-waist ratio thing, again. On top of that, “whiskered” jeans are a bit too young-looking, flared legs make me look like I’m melting into the ground, and pleated fronts are so 1990. The only other alternative were jeans made of that lightweight denim-look-alike that’s so flimsy you can’t wear underwear with them but if you go commando, you can’t walk two steps without someone saying “Must be jelly, ‘cuz jam don’t shake like that.” What the hell are department store buyers thinking when they stock women’s departments with crap like that?
So, I decided to buy skirts. I miss wearing them, anyway, and I’ve reached a “certain age” where I can pair them with tights and ankle boots if I want, fashion be damned. I feel prettier in skirts. Getting dressed every day is an event, and I know I’m suitably dressed for everything, aside from spontaneous “romantic” hikes.
Hubby seems to like them, too. I think, after a few years in which the fanciest thing I’ve worn around the house was a pair of embroidered jeans, he’s rather relieved to see that I still have ankles and calves. Besides, I walk differently in skirts. I sit differently, too — more “girly” as he put it last night. When you’re married to a woman with a personality and intellect as assertive as mine, I imagine it’s nice to see her behaving “girly” now and again.
As an added benefit, I can now rest assured that my soul is not damned to the eternal fires of hell. Ah. Form and function!
