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).

Stop, No: Confessions Of A Mom Jeans Hater

Topshop_MomJeans_LightBlueLucky for me, I’ve never had a mom that had cringe-worthy style. Never once did I catch her in a Micky Mouse vest, different holiday themed garments that lit up, or, the worst of all, mom jeans.

So this past weekend, when I saw about a handful of good looking ladies in their 20’s painfully trying to revive the 90’s rocking said mom jeans at bars, it kind of made me scratch my head in confusion. Is this a thing? Are we doing this now? All it took was a simple Google search to answer my question. Type in “mom jeans” and you notice Urban Outfitters has a whole page dedicated to them for purchasing at a ridiculous price. And certain fashion-related websites are calling them a “breath of fresh air from the jeggings craze.” Uuhhhhhh …

58b60830d26ef5b1f63fd4edb732fe5c220cba41465f207836d5bf861c5ece40

People, why oh why are we rocking mom jeans? Seriously? Is it the elongated vagina look we are enjoying? Or perhaps it is the fact that we want our asses to look as horrific as humanly possible. Seriously, mom jeans give you 80’s ass. What is 80’s ass, you ask? Look at any music video/commercial/movie from the 1980’s and notice the ass … you’ll understand. Of course they will accentuate your tiny tiny little waist, but in return, you get pancake 80’s ass.

I get it, you’re sick of skinnies, and think bell bottoms have been done one too many times. But to resort to mom jeans is just deplorable. I get it, you love vintage and die for bringing trends back from the dead. But mom jeans were never a trend. Never. They are just something some woman found to be super comfortable as she carted her kids back and forth from soccer games and somehow it stuck.

Bottom line: Unless you are fashion week model stick figure skinny, you cannot pull this look off. And even if you are fashion week model stick figure skinny … you still look ridiculous. Let’s all get together and burn them, just in case. Sound good?

Now … what we all came to see, the lovely ladies of SNL in their mom jeans, am I right?

snl-mom-jeans-skit-photo

Slow Clap For Special K

CaptureI give you my 100% approval to throw stuff at me when you read the next paragraph, ahem:

When I was in 7th or 8th grade, I remember shopping at the Gap and being utterly disturbed and devastated when I went from a size 2 to a size 4. I would try to squeeze my ass in the size 2 pair of jeans … only because they were a size 2, and because I was under the assumption that moving up to a size 4 meant that I was gaining weight and getting fat. Alright, I have taken cover, you may throw whatever you want at me, just don’t aim at my face.

This awful and embarrassing memory popped in to my head when I saw the latest commercial out of Special K last night. Now I love me some Special K (and no Special K is not paying me to write any of this) … especially those breakfast bars, the chocolate and pretzel ones … to die for. The problem is I could eat like four of them in one sitting, which defeats the whole purpose of being “healthy”. I gobble it up like a beast and crave 10 more. But that is neither here nor there.

I did kind of fall in love with their “Size Sassy” campaign, for numerous reasons. In our world, obviously, there is such a push to be fit, skinny, in a size 2. Size 2 is king … and also … completely unobtainable for normal women. And you know what, there is nothing wrong with that.

A little secret about me: I never weigh myself. I’m not saying everyone should do this, but this is just what works for me. I’ll only get weighed if my doctor literally drags me to that old-fashioned machine and makes me. And it isn’t because I’m pushing that number under the rug, or turning a blind eye … it is because I feel like I am healthier when I don’t know. Listen, you know when you gain weight, or feel bloated, or even unhealthy. Your body tells you those things. You know when your pants are a little too snug and when you need to do something about it. The hard part is actually getting off your ass and making a change.

And I just want to give Special K a slow clap for changing their messaging a bit and focusing on women getting to what they believe is a comfortable weight and to one that makes them feel good enough to fit in to their “sassy pants”. For some women that may be a size 14, others it may be a size 6 … who knows. Doesn’t really matter. We don’t live in a world of 2, 4, and 6 and for the rest of the people, they can just try Sears (if you get that reference we are officially best friends). We are all different and that is what kind of rules about being a chick (Jesus, let me break out in song).

At the end of the day it is about the fit and look of a pair of jeans, not shaming yourself for not resembling Kate Moss …  am I right? A guy isn’t going to deny you and say, “woof … that girl is rockin’ a pair of size 10 Citizens of Humanity … bu bye :::z snap::: (because that is how I imagine men hit on women in their minds …clearly). No, they are going to be too busy checking out your curves to even give a shit. I’m not a violent person, what-so-ever, but if a guy EVER commented on the size of my jeans I would drop kick a bitch.

So thank you, Special K, I really hope you’ve started the movement to help women stop torturing themselves by trying desperately to lose those annoying 10 pounds, as well as fixating on their weight, and instead help them get healthy and slip into their sassy pants, whatever they may be, over a reasonable amount of time.

If you haven’t seen this kick-ass commercial, check it out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WWEQuc1Wtb4

Disclaimer: I swear Special K did not pay me to write any of this. I just love a good advertising campaign that supports women instead of putting awful thoughts in their heads about the need to look a certain way that is totally unobtainable. Word.

Cheers, Curls and a Fear of Jeans

Screen shot 2013-03-23 at 9.18.34 PMMy blogging soul sister down in Washington, D.C., Meaghan from District Sparkle, has pinged me to reveal five random things about myself … and quite frankly I couldn’t resist. Sometimes it feels good to let out the deep dark and embarrassing secrets of your past. And sometimes, like in this case, it is just good to reflect, laugh and embrace the fact that you were once, and most likely still are, a raging dork.

So if you didn’t think you knew me well enough … behold my five random facts:

1. Crazed Curls: It is true, I’ve been living a big ol’ lie. The minute I hit puberty, my hair turned into this thick, kinky curly disaster area that I loathed. I luckily stumbled upon a genius stylist who, in his words, taught me how to make my hair “Asian straight.” What once took me 2 1/2 hours to straighten my hair now only takes me 30 minutes, so thank Jesus for really expensive straighteners and conditioning creams.

2. Jeans Didn’t Exist In My Wardrobe Until I was 11: Until I was in 5th grade, stretchy pants and overalls were the only two things I would put on my body. Yea … I was hawt. Before I started 5th grade, my sister drug me to Old Navy and insisted I purchased a pair of jeans … normal, old school … jeans. But seriously … jeans freaked me out when I was little. I was scared I was going to get trapped in them and like pee my pants or something (yeah … I was a slightly odd child). But let’s be real here, my fears held me back from adopting really heinous jeans from the 90’s … in a way I did myself a favor.

3. No Piercings For This Guy: It’s true, I do not have one piercing on my body, including my ears. I have a tattoo, but no piercings. Never did and probably never will. When I was younger it was the fear of pain that held me back from getting pierced. But the older I got, the more I decided it was an economical move, meaning one less accessory I had to invest in. When I turned 25 I was going to give myself the quarter century gift of getting my ears pierced, but instead ended up getting my first and only migraine I’ve ever had. I saw that as an omen to stay piercing-free.

4. R-O-W-D-I-E: Yep kids … I was a cheerleader. Ugh. Listen, I wanted to be Britney Spears. I loathed competition and the idea of “trying out” for anything mortified me. So when they made cheerleading in 8th grade “no cuts” I said, “why not … that has to be just like dancing, right?” So on top of having to wear pleather pants and bandana tops whilst rocking out to techno music for my dance recitals, I had to stand in front of packed bleachers in an ugly cheer uniform making up cheers for wrestling matches because, “Dribble it. Pass it. We. Want. A basket,” didn’t seem appropriate. Hmmm … Ps. I don’t got spirit, no I don’t.

5. First Published in Third Grade: Excuse me while I remove the excess dirt from my shoulder. Listen, I just told you all about how I wanted to be Britney Spears and how I thought I was going to get trapped in my blue jeans and pee my pants. I deserve to gloat a little. So yeah, I wrote a poem about my mommy and it got published in some kids journal and won a prize. It absolutely terrified me at the time, but looking back was the start of my writing career. I always knew I wanted to be a writer, and this was a huge defining moment for me. Well … except for those few years during puberty when I was certain I was going to move to New York City and become the next Britney Spears. Psh … idiot.

I now challenge all of my fellow Philly fashion bloggers to reveal five random things about themselves! If I can reveal to the world my fears of peeing my pants, you can, too. Get um, ladies.