(by: JR, 6.27.05) So in my ongoing obsession as to how various articles of clothing drape, fit, or otherwise adorn my ever-shrinking ass, I am pondering my “skinny jeans”. Or, as they are currently known due to a category change, my “goal” jeans, 'cuz I am not yet skinny enough to get back into them, as I am newly a size 8 and the jeans are an old-school size 6. “Back” being the operative word.
I want it on public record that I wore these jeans for a number of years before turning into a depressed fatty. They are size six Gap jeans from about 1994, and I wore them until about 2000. Prior to 1994 when I was anorexic I wore 2's. But I was unhealthy and didn't look as good. Plus, I had a purple mohawk and Doc Martens and those kind of detracted from the jeans. Anyway, I wore real back-in-the-day size six, not the new bigger but not better corporate manipulated size six. But I'm getting ahead of myself. And yes I am fully aware that Gap jeans from 1994 are not the pinnacle of fashion. It's the principle of the thing.
All the girls out there know these jeans of which I write. This is our pair of jeans (or a close approximation thereof, in case a fit of depression made more intense by a night of excessive chocolate and/or alcohol caused us to throw the originals out. Or worse yet, gave them to a friend with whom we no longer associate) that we “outgrew” 'cuz they “shrunk in the dryer,” cough cough. They are the jeans we do not ever, even when having a really fabulous hair day, put on in the week before our period. These are the jeans that make our ass hot and our waist small. They're snug but don't restrict blood flow when we sit. They are the jeans that get us not just free drinks ('cuz face it, being vertical and having a pulse, boobs, and/or a vagina will usually get us free alcohol - it's not that hard) but also free pot/insert drug of choice, significant discounts at auto parts stores, and free cell phone paraphernalia from college guys who work the booth at the mall. These are the jeans that automatically trigger the flirt gene, the nonchalant flick of the hair, the sexy lilting laugh when the hot guy is an idiot and we're secretly laughing at him and not with him. THE jeans.
At this point I must digress to say a few words about a conspiracy theory to which I am partial. I don't subscribe to conspiracy theories generally. For example, I believe Neil Armstrong really walked on the actual moon; the government, for everything else of import that it is hiding from us is not hiding space aliens; and though I am unsure about how many who's shot Kennedy I do know that Oliver Stone did not help matters. My conspiracy theory involves high-fructose corn syrup and the food industry being in bed with the clothing industry. See, it works something like this (keep in mind I don't have all the details worked out yet - this is just a rough draft): Some time in the mists after WWII (the last war worth its shit) some scientist discovered HFCS. It was cheap, so they put it in anything and everything that could be processed beyond recognition. It kept the price of mass-marketed food down, so the masses ate more and were satisfied, if not actually healthier. And the masses ate more, and more, and more, until the masses became addicted slothful gluttonous fatties.
A helpful side effect was that HFCS kept the masses in a subdued stupor, so the clothing companies got in on it. They noticed that people were getting fatter, so rather than have a blob of consumers who felt bad about themselves when their clothes didn't fit, they just made the clothes larger for each size but kept the old size tag on it. For example, a pair of women's pants, say size 4 from 1989, is today a size 0. This way the woman who thinks she still wears the same size as she did in high-school feels good about herself, but is actually wearing a 1989 size 8. See how it works? Here in America we can't have people with low self-esteem. Apparently in the '60's people decided that low self-esteem is wrong and mean, inhumane and cruel, rather than an indicator to get off one's ass, take responsibility for one's self and change what one does not like. I am not of the coddle-those-with-low-self-esteem camp. I am all for low-self esteem and self-loathing as motivation. But that's a whole other discussion.
So I have my six's out of storage. They are hanging in my closet and I try them on every so often, just to check in on them and get reacquainted with the old me, or at least the parts of old me that I want to keep. In fact, I watched Sex and the City the other night (this show is another whole other discussion. I discovered that I am a fan no longer) wearing my jeans. And my $150 black Calvin Klein 2-1/2” heel slides. I love those shoes. I have decided that a nice round chunk of change to drop on shoes is $200. You get a good quality shoe, attractive, and sexy all at the same time. The shoe can make or break the outfit you know. Anyway, the buttons didn't button all the way, but no matter, they will 'cuz I run now. I run on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays. My half-marathon training plan hangs on the refrigerator and I am going to finish that sucker come October. I don't like it but I do it. It builds character. Not that I really need to build character, I just need to lose ass. And some boob loss would be good.
That ties into my next wardrobe goal of learning to use the boobs. I have a chick-friend who uses her boobs with great success. She got the starter for her boat repaired for free after her boyfriend was told it would cost $125.00. It's a tough world out there and success is all about the tactics. I was never a boob-emphasizer, but I think I am going to check it out. It looks like fun.
