this is dedicated to all the moms who can't wear their jeans anymore.

seven jeans split

after having my second baby, it was time to get on with life and out of maternity clothes. i needed jeans that didn’t scream “mom” but didn’t ride too low that my mom-gut was in full view from all angles. i wasn’t a jean connoisseur and i had regularly bought jeans at the gap because they were cheap and easy. however, at this point, i knew i needed something more, particularly a little lift in the rear…if you know what i mean. sag-free ass to put it bluntly. anyway, i didn’t know that citizen and seven jeans were cool until a hip, trendy (skinny single, no less) friend said, “oh, try seven jeans, they fit any body type.”

ok, i thought, fine. i’ll get some, why not? where did i get them, i had to ask.

after i found out (i’m remaining anonymous on this), i went to an upscale department store at an undisclosed location in an undisclosed state. i snooped around and found a rack that had variety of styles.

great, i thought, until i looked at the tags… $180, $200, $240, $140 people pay this much for jeans! what?  oh well, it’s an investment, right?

well, i went with that idea until i ran into a typical mom problem: what size do i actually wear? what do i think i wear vs. what i want to wear vs. what i actually wear. it’s a cruel riddle to solve when you are standing lost in a foreign department with armfuls of jeans. it’s really overwhelming, as some of you might know. topping it off, of course, the numbers were in euro sizes- not the standard 6-8-10 type thing (gap is so easy). anyway, it was just a little too much but i was ready to battle it out.

so, with one hand steering my stroller, a pile of jeans thrown over my shoulder, and a latte in the other hand, i headed for the dressing room. my son was probably just around 16 months so he couldn’t really talk but he could say things to entertain me. we babbled back and forth as we settled into the dressing room and i got ready for the big event: the trying on of jeans.

well, of course, i wasn’t the size i wanted. and worse, i wasn’t the size i secretly assumed i was. i was the next one up. the one you don’t want to let yourself get to and stay at. we all know what our “next size up” is and sometimes it’s a frightening number. well, that resulted in me needing the assistance of a dressing room girl. she fetched me all kinds of styles- which i hadn’t realized there were so many different butt-pocket swirls options…including crystals and bling and flowers. i actually liked the look of most of the jeans….on the hanger.

once on the body, though…not so much. i literally went through a dozen pairs and they were all a bit too snug. i was too bummed (good unintentional pun there) as i turned pair after pair, revealing that trunk of junk that would never stop following me. well, short story long, i was down to a last pair…not the priciest but a hefty sum of money for a pair of pants nonetheless. i squeezed into those b*sta%3s and they almost worked. hmm…let’s just see if i can move around….split! shock, awe, horror…and a well timed

“uh-oh mommy” from my son.

crap! i split the jeans. not oops, i ripped them a little but holy cow, i tore those things in half…all kinds of criminal paranoia started creeping in. great…do i call anyone in here? i can’t afford to pay for these…everyone will laugh at me…they’ll bust me if i leave…on & on. i was in full panic. so, like an upright, honest citizen, i took my time and hung each pair back on the hangers. yes, i put them back…

all except one pair. i couldn’t quite incriminate myself in such an obvious way. no.  so, i strategically checked the neighboring stall to see if i had company. nope. i took the hanger slowly and carefully and slid it under my stall and up onto the seat in the other dressing stall. i knew i had to go under because the dressing room cameras would easily bust my offense of flying hanger and shredded denim. i repeated the sly transfer with the pricey pants i had fully destroyed. phew. my dressing room was evidence free. i was safe. except, no i had to leave the store quickly and quietly. i composed myself and walked casually out of there as if i were a good person.

hmm, hmm, hhmmm, ddooo-deee-dee, whistle whistle…i scanned hard for the nearest exit. ah-ha, just off to the right. i went for it. just strolling along like nothing happened, wondering if i would go to jail for running away – or at least have to pay an embarrassing fine….um, you honor, i was trying on jeans and i blew out the back…i was too embarrassed to fess up so i ran out of there in a hot-faced panic….guilty! $500 fine, you idiot!

anyway, i made it to the parking lot but…oh no. wrong parking lot. i went in on the  lower level but exited on the upper level. i had two choices: go back through the store or run down the embankment with my baby in one hand, my diaper bag over my shoulder and the stroller in my other hand. i couldn’t go back. i just couldn’t.

i felt like i used to- shoplifting in highschool. adrenaline pumping, heart pounding...it was like running away in a rebellious act. not cool but i wasn’t getting busted...no way. 

so, luckily, across the lot, there were some steep concrete steps that went down to the lot where i was parked.  i had my eyes on my ride…i hauled the stroller, kid and whatever else i had straight down the stairs and ran, literally, across the lot. i threw everything in the truck in record time and split.