There is nothing I hate worse than shopping for jeans. I’d happily try on bikinis in the middle of February under a fluorescent light rather than go jean shopping. For me, denim buying comes in a stage of three emotions.
There are so many different styles of jeans that make no sense to me. What is a “relaxed bootcut”? Explain to me what a “super skinny” versus a “skinny” is? Am I not thin enough for one? Does one stop the blood from circulating to my calf? I feel so confused. And so, so alone.
At this stage you find yourself naked and afraid in a dressing room. You’ve annoyed the dressing room attendant to the point of no return. You aren’t sure if you’re a size 25 or 29. You have exhausted every brand, every wash and every style. There is only one pair left in the room with you and suddenly, you turn to prayer.
In your hands is finally a pair of jeans that fit. It’s the pair that hangs perfectly at the waist, flatters the bum and is in both a wash and a style that doesn’t require a dictionary. At this point, elation replaces your profound sadness.
That is, until you get home and realize it was exhaustion, not success, that made you buy the jeans.