I bought my first pair of skinny jeans last week. I know, I know, welcome to 2008 or whenever.
I’ve been resisting this trend for years, always with the niggling fear in the back of my mind, that if I finally cave in to popular fashion, everyone will start wearing big baggy JNCOs again.
It could happen.
Anyway, skinny jeans used to be exclusively favored by my Cali-cool friends who did Cali-cool things, but in the last couple of years they’ve become pretty much ubiquitous. I actually attempted to buy my first pair in 2011, but just couldn’t do it. And again in 2012, but I was several months pregnant at that point.
I had such high hopes when I tried them on, too. My thought process went like this: if I got pregnant lady skinny jeans and hated them, no worries, they were only supposed to be temps anyway. If I liked them, so much the better, they would be my weekend pants, and I could wear my voluminous work blouses over them. But as it so happened, the jeans I tried on didn’t fit. Or, I should say, didn’t fit comfortably. Even with the spandex, I felt like I was trying to squeeze my thighs into denim sausage casings. It was awful.
Fast forward 2 years, and here we are, and here I am with a serious case of the frumps. I’ve never been the most fashion-forward person, but I’ve always thought of myself as fashion-contemporary.
So what happened? I suppose it was a long time in coming. My pregnant lady clothes were borrowed, cheap, and practical–I wasn’t about to spend a lot of money on clothes I’d only wear for a couple of months. Then, after deciding that I would stay home with DC instead of returning to work, our budget just didn’t allow for much in the way of new clothes. Besides, we were getting a lot of cool swag from Skechers, my husband’s employer, and I can’t honestly say that I would’ve even wanted to wear anything else besides yoga pants and running tights and moisture wicking jackets with little thumb holes in the sleeves–I was comfy-chic and drew several envious glances from other mothers at bounce class who assumed I actually had the leisure time to work out. I didn’t. But that’s not the point.
The point is, at some point in December, the frumps hit me hard. I can’t say what caused it. But it happened. And it was probably my comeuppance for all those times I had tskd-tsked young moms who had let themselves go. Scratch that. Definitely my comeuppance.
And so I made the momentous decision to add skinny jeans to my wardrobe. My humble pair of bootcuts were beginning to fray in the crotchal area. They needed to be replaced. I squandered a few precious nap hours (over the span of several days) researching prices and brands and online reviews. I was overwhelmed by the choices. But in the end, I decided that if I was going to start somewhere, it might as well be H&M, where fashion meets family-budget, and I was going to have to get in there and try on as many pairs as I could while my daughter was in child’s-day-out, until I found a pair that actually fit.
I bought the first pair I tried on. Yup. It was a sign. Clearly, God wanted me to buy skinny jeans. Who would have thunk that this cultural artifact from the punk era would have been vested with such divine favor? I had capitulated, and my own inner punk was sad, but I was ready to wear them out of the store. They were that comfortable.
“But do they look okay?” I asked my husband, who is infinitely more fashion-sensitive than I.
“You know they do,” he winked. “I’m proud of you.”
“So I can totally get combat boots now, right?”
“I thought you wanted a Kerug.”