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Trying On Blue Jeans when you have a weight obsession disorderAnnouncement, Bikini season is officialLy over!! Except, just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water (no pun intended) denim is in, and jean season is now in full effect!!  I know this has some of you running for cover and burrowing yourselves under a pile of sweat pants, and flannel pajamas. I know it also has some of you avoiding the Gap like you would the DMV, or that guy in your office who smells like soup and always wants to show you his stamp collection.

Now believe me, I am no rookie to the jean pool. I too have ripped a young sales girls limbs off after she uttered the phrase “may I assist you with a size?”. I myself have cursed the day a skinny, straight fit, or slim fitted version of what used to be “relaxed fit” came about. I have spent many a time in a dressing room falling over on my face because I couldn’t get a pair of them up past my ankles, and have also had to call that same sales girl I made run to the bathroom and cry back so she could assist me in pulling them back off over my ankles.

I have had those same piles in my closet, the “used to fit back before I had breasts pile”,the “never going to come back in style, but maybe they will someday pile”, and the “if I grease my legs in chicken fat and hold my breathe for the whole day” pile.

Weight Obsession in the Dressing Room

I can’t tell you the battle I have had with jeans, and this isn’t new to me.

I remember lying on my bed in the 9th grade and trying to zip up a pair of jeans so hard that I ripped the flesh off of my entire thumb. I screamed at my mother for putting them in the dryer, and from that day on had a fear of washing my jeans.

So what is it, that made Brooke Shields utter those famous words ”nothing comes between and my Jordaches, when it doesn’t take much but a label and a sales rack to keep most women away from the average pair of jeans.

It’s pretty sad, and let me tell you, I’m still not a pro at it to this day.

The thing that I did come to realize is that all those brands out there, whether it be Michael Coors, or Old Navy are not on the same page when it comes to sizes.

I did a little experiment about a year ago and decided that I was going to face my fear of trying them on to prove my point. I did this partly because I love any excuse to shop, and also because a woman I work with recently tried to turn me on to this thing called “not your daughters jeans”. Um..let me tell you they aren’t your “daughters jeans” because no daughter in the world would be caught dead in them. I don’t know who came up with these, but my idea is a bunch of  soccer moms’s got wasted on boxed wine playing Bonko one night and decided to patent these things.

Anyway back to the dressing room.                               

I went to 8 different stores.

In them I was offered either an actual size, or my measurement size (you know those 3 numbers with a dash).

Well anyway in each store I tried on what was supposed to be my size and then the one that actually ended up fitting.

In each store, and this is no lie, I wore a different size.

Here is the ironic thing, some that were supposed to be my size were actually too big, and yes some were actually too small. Some fit fine in some places, but were horrendous in others. I actually had to go to a 9th store until I found a pair that I actually liked. By that time I could have cared what size they were as I was fed up with the whole process.

When I got home I remember thinking, that I bought those jeans because they fit, and they looked good on me, not because they had a certain number on the inside.                                                                          

If I would have gone by that philosophy I would have walked around looking like an idiot.

I then, went in my closet and chucked every single pile I had in my closet.

Yep brought them down to the dumpster and said “good riddance”

I put my brand new jeans in the empty spaces that used to hold nothing but frustration, and from that moment on started a brand new pile.

It was the “who gives a damn, I am perfect just the way I am” pile!

Put that in your jeans fools!


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