Sometimes I am an idiot.
During all those months of wanting and hoping it took me to become pregnant, I needed new jeans. My favourite Diesel jeans no longer left the colour of my knickers a secret piece of information which would be disclosed to J at night-time. Nor did my second or third best Diesel jeans (let us get it over with: I am a Diesel girl). But I didn’t see the point in looking for new jeans since I would be pregnant in no time. No time turned out to be almost a year, then came the nine months where it seemed completely ridiculous to look for new jeans because my stomach kept growing, and then came the months after giving birth where my stomach was all blawahhhblah and I didn’t feel like getting undressed in places such as shops with skinny 18-year-old asking me how the jeans fit.
I actually fit into my old jeans quite quickly after giving birth so for the past three and a half months I have been wearing black knickers because that is after all more discreet than white when you wear them under jeans which will reveal their colour.
We went to town Saturday to look for new jeans for J. Not for me, because I didn’t quite feel ready yet. It took J less than 30 minutes to find a pair of great jeans which fit him like a glove. That made me courageous. We left the children’s department (where we had gone to get something for BOM – it is not where J finds his jeans) and headed for “my floor” where I hoped I would find some sweet and plain-looking girl who would throw great jeans at me before I had even stated my purpose for the visit. We did not.
I had a meltdown. Right there, among very few jeans (it seemed) and girls wearing too much makeup, but great coats, I had a meltdown. I grabbed a pair of jeans which I knew wouldn’t fit, but were the only ones close to my size, and tried them on. They did – surprise – not fit. So I left. J ran after me with BOM and the pram trying to convince me to keep on looking or ask for another size, but it was too late. I stormed out.
I felt tired and worn out. “I hate the pants I am wearing, I need a haircut, I hate myself,” I told J outside the department store. I was on the brink of crying (hormones, definitely hormones), because basically what I wanted was a pair of great new jeans sans holes. And I wanted them now.
I don’t know how he did it, but J convinced me to look a little more instead of going home (which was where I was headed – and preferably straight to bed). He took BOM and the pram and let me hit the jeans store nearby. 30 minutes later – after opening the door to the changing room a lot more times than I am used to (and comfortable with), and after letting one of the 18-year-old shop girls who fit into the skinniest of skinny jeans (who, I have to say, was really great a giving jeans advice and didn’t laugh at my post baby stomach blawahhhblah) see me in jeans that were both too big and too small (way too small, way too skinny) – I walked out of the store with two brand new pairs of jeans. Two great pairs. One pair which looks a lot (or exactly, to be exact) like my most, my second most and my third most beloved pair of jeans (I am not only a Diesel girl, I am also an if the model fits, buy it – even if it is again and again” girl) and another pair that doesn’t. I had hoped for a pair of skinny jeans which would give me a chance of showing off my new short biker boots, but even though I had no such luck, I am extremely pleased with what I walked away with.
(And after today’s success, I have decided that maybe somewhere someone has created a pair of skinny jeans that will fit me and allow me to show off the boots. Whether or not, I am going to look for them.)
Sometimes I am an idiot. But thankfully, luckily, fortunately I am married to a man who won’t let me be an idiot for very long. Thank you…