White Jeans And A Stain-prone Lady

Screen Shot 2015-05-21 at 1.34.27 PMRecently I invested in my first pair of white jeans. I had spent years being envious of the girls having the balls to wear them, and looking so “summer chic” frolicking about the city. So this year I said screw it, even though I’m stain-prone to the point that if a glob of BBQ sauce is across the room it will, indeed, end up on my shirt or pants, I decided to pull the trigger and invest in a pair.

So I took them for their first spin last week. And did you catch above that I’m stain prone? Yeah … in no way, shape or form am I a “J. Crew girl”. What I mean by a “J Crew girl” is those girls that never have a hair out of place and could come out of a tornado looking like they walked straight out of the salon and dry cleaners all at the same time. Me … well … not so much. I try … God dammit … I try, but you will most likely find a flaw in everything I wear.

While I adored my white jeans and felt like they gave me a little extra pep in my step, they also came with a side of paranoia that was … extreme to say the least. While I normally would fight a bitch for a window seat by myself on the train, I opted to stand in ridiculously painful wedges as the idea of my ass covered in white fabric touching those grimy seats with God knows what on them sent me into an anxiety spiral. I could just imagine standing up and the crazy lady on the train being all, “honey … you got a little something on your backside,” in a non-whisper.

Even while walking around, if I heard people giggling … I was 100% sure it was because I had an unsightly stain on my ass. I blame old horrific elementary school memories for these issues. That one time you were running to school, fell into a puddle and EVERYONE assumed you had an “accident” and never let you live it down. I mean … kids suck. 

Because I know you are all DYING to get a sneak peek into what goes down in my brain, I’m opening the door for you on some of my thoughts I had whilst wearing said white jeans. Listen, I will totally wear them again because I adore them …truly. But I will be JUST if not more paranoid when I do. What can I say, another example of crazy shit we deal with for the sake of looking good, am I right?

1. Did I just get my period? (side note: I had literally just finished my period days before purchasing white jeans. It wasn’t even an option … I know you all needed to know that detail desperately … you’re welcome)

2. I’m really glad I packed water and bread and pretezels for lunch today … that will give me no reason to have stains! Bread. And. Water. And. Pretzels. :::yawns:::

3. Should I bring a sweatshirt to work with me, you know, in case I DO get a stain and need to wrap it around my waist … 90’s-style? 

4. Yep I TOTALLY just got my period. BALLS. (side note: see above)

5. Dear GOD, is it possible for the black color of my desk chair to rub off on my jeans?!

6. I’m okay with people thinking I’m sick because I’m running to the bathroom every 10 minutes to make sure I don’t have a stain. It’s worth it. 

7. OMG is that adorable guy checking out my ass? :::smiles::: Wait! Do I have a stain :::twists around awkwardly in each direction::: Fuck, I totally have a stain. Fantastic. Now he probably thinks I’m disgusting and will never want to marry me … GREAT. 

9. I’m cramping … it’s my period. :::sigh::: (side note: again … see above)

10. What happens in my brain every time I get up and walk anywhere in front of people: AHHHHHHHHHH. :::smiles:::

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Recovering Designer Jean Addict

tumblr_inline_munac26pwD1qifdz4I didn’t own a pair of jeans until I was 11. True story. And for a while I told people it was because I didn’t like the way they felt, so instead I rocked leggings and jean overalls (I was truly a hot mess as a child). But it wasn’t because I didn’t like the way they felt. Mostly it was because … and be prepared to laugh … I was worried I wouldn’t be able to unbutton/zipper them while going to the bathroom at school. Go ahead … I’ll give you some time to soak that dysfunction in. Sigh. (Side bar: I only recently got the balls to tell my family the true reason behind my disdain for jeans as a child … it only took a decade or so and a half bottle of wine, but the truth was revealed. They laughed. Hard.)

So at age 11, my sister had enough of having me in her life looking a hot/freakish mess and drug me to Old Navy to buy me my first pair of jeans. I ended up getting the most traditional jeans one could find, and I remember them being a size double zero in boot cut style. From that point on, I was hooked … and could absolutely unbutton AND zipper them every time I went to the bathroom at school. Boo-yah!

But one pair of Old Navy jeans (I’m sure they were like $19.99), spiraled me into a jean obsession throughout my teenage years. Old Navy turned into Gap. I remember I cried when I went from a size 2 to a size 4 in Gap jeans when I was 14. Why my mother didn’t backhand me, I have not the slightest idea. The woman is a saint, what can I say.

My addiction became worse once I saw rich, popular girls strutting around the halls of my school in what was known as “designer jeans (hey, remember the 2000s?).” I’m pretty sure I sold my soul for a pair of Mavi’s in the 8th grade. And then there was that time when I made my mom buy me a pair of Lucky Brand jeans with the pockets faded on the ass, that were SO low, like B. Spears low, I still have back problems from slouching in my chair in high school so no one saw my crack. Oh yeah … and it said “get lucky” when you unzipped the zipper. Jesus. CHRIST. I was 15.

Every summer my mom and I went to NYC for some “back to school” shopping. And as a true jean addict, I had to go check out the boutique where the freaking Olsen twins bought their jeans at in SoHo … clearly. And that is when … :::covers face::: … my mom bought my 16-year-old self, a $300 (yep … drink that number in) pair of jeans. One pair of jeans. For $300. My ass had no business being in a pair of $300 jeans. Hell, my 28-year-old ass has no business RIGHT NOW being in a pair of $300 jeans. Again … maybe I slipped my mom some crack, I don’t really recall, but the woman is a fucking saint.

I cringe when I think about that moment. I just remember my mom being so happy because those jeans made ME so happy (did I mention the woman is a fucking saint?). And now, as a 28-year-old adult who buys her own clothes, I have trouble splurging on a pair of $60 jeans, let alone a $300 pair. I’ve secretly wanted to write my mother a check for $300 to pay her back from those stupid, overpriced jeans. I think it will cleanse my soul.

Jeans for me right now can be defined as $25.99 black skinny jeans from H&M. That’s as far as I go. As a recovering designer jean addict, I don’t give jean sections at stores the time of day. For a while I was thinking it was because jean shopping is oh so overwhelming, but then after a lot of thought I realized, “holy shit, do I not like jeans anymore?!”

It came to me when I was reading “I’ll Drink To That,” by Betty Halbreich (if you haven’t read this book, do it, this woman is a BOSS). A boyfriend of hers insisted she bought her first pair of jeans. As a proper lady, she never wore pants because it was a huge no-no back in the day (God,I was born in the wrong decade). And at an attempt to invest in a pair, she failed miserably, because, at the end of the day, she hated jeans. And that’s when it hit me, “I’m not a jeans wearing kind of gal anymore.” Amen, Betty, amen.

Jeans have just made me yawn recently. Unless I’m rocking them with a pair of fierce heels, I may or may not fall asleep. Jeans are great for running errands, doing shit around the house, but otherwise, there are way more productive things to spend your money on. Maybe one day, if I had some kids and a family, my ass will make their way into a pair of “mom jeans” … bahahaha I kid, I kid … I would rather die. And if I HAVE to rock a pair of jeans, I’ll go for my faves from Forever 21 for $10. Sure you can only wear them once or twice, but they are $10! You heard it. $10. (Ps. I could have bought 30 pairs of them with that money my mom spent on that awful $300 pair … I’ll never stop being ashamed … perhaps I need therapy).