For a lot of us, the Christmas holidays are about being forced to do things that we just don't want to do. No, I'm not talking about hanging out with extended family or listening to Mariah Carey and Taylor Swift
train-wrecks seasonal favorites in heavy rotation. I'm talking about shopping. At the mall. With the heat on full blast and children (ahem, my children) playing tackle football with the mannequins.
Anyway, I took the plunge and went jeans shopping right after Christmas, with the hubs and kids in tow. I consider jeans shopping to be a form of psychological warfare, ranking right up there with colicky newborns and having my eyes dilated. Hence, I go maybe every five years. But, the Mayan calendar and the predicted apocalypse got me thinking: Do I really want to go out of this world and into the next in a Bootcut? So, we dragged our overdosed-on-family-togetherness kids to the mall and got to work. It might not have been 5,000 years in the making, but it was every bit as harrowing and gruesome as any apocalyptic movie out there. Actually, it felt a lot like a sacrificial ceremony, except nobody did me the kindness of ripping my beating heart from my chest and holding it in front of my eyes so I could get a good look.
It started badly, and ended...not quite as badly.
Mistake #1: Starting in the Juniors section.
I should've known I was in the wrong place when the sales-nymph offered me a complimentary Efferdent cocktail and a Hoveround to browse with.
Mistake #2: Assuming they made jeans for actual people instead of Fembots who don't need such things as thighs and internal organs.
Mistake #3: Airing all of my frustrations and criticisms about the denim industry, including a few, "Back in my day"s, in answer to the saleswoman's, "How can I help you?" I think my anti-whiskering rant really got her. Or it might have been my tangent about embellished back pockets. It was hard to tell the exact moment her eyes started to glaze over.
Anyhoo, the salesgirl gave me a mountain of skinny- and straight-legged styles to try, and I went to work with my mini-me in tow. Amid such encouraging shouts as, "Mommy, your legs are bumpy!" and "You're so squishy!", I worked through my pile and came up with nada. Finally, the 20-something helping me broke it down and said, "They have styles with a higher rise (read: Mom-jeans) upstairs in Misses."
We rode the escalator up. And down. And back up again. And that's where I found them. Somewhere between the Real Housewives of Orange County and It's Pat, I found a pair that passed the Mike Brown inspection and tucked in my Frye's quite nicely.
All in all, it wasn't quite as bad as being the guest of honor at a human sacrifice, but I won't be doing it again for, say, another 5,000 years.