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The Trouble with Me & Jeans

For the past month D has vowed that he is no longer going shopping on Saturdays with me. So we have not. But this Saturday our lunch date somehow was finagled into stopping by a few stores, you know, because we were already out.

D’s frugalness made for easy convincing.

“Our FJ is a gas hog” I explained as we walked towards the strip mall.

He turned on his ringer and went into the Apple Store as I quickly make a B-line for Lane Bryant. It has recently come to my attention that my jeans have suffered from an incurable case of chub-rub.

…Let’s pause for a moment of silence out of respect and honor for all the beautiful and perfect fitting jeans lost to chub-rub…

Actually It has been almost a year since I bought myself some jeans, as evidence of the thread barren sorry excuse of fabric between my thighs. The problem is that I absolutely despise trying on clothes, especially pants of any kind. As a matter of fact I would rather spend $200, bring them home, try them on, only to return all $200 of them the following week.

But here is the situation at hand, D is in the Apple Store. There’s no sneaking a bag that big into the FJ and past D’s eyes. Let alone explaining the purchase of several jeans on our new budget. Any other day I could sneak the bag in and hide the evidence in my closet. What D doesn’t know won’t hurt him. {Wait, I mean what D doesn’t know won’t hurt me.}

In my head I relent to the fact that I would be trying on pants today.

After gathering several pair, I ask for a dressing room and tell the attendant my name. “Amylia”.


“Amylia, you know like Amelia Earhart.”

She writes on the door Emellia. Close enough.

I get inside and begin girding up my loins for the painful task ahead. I set the huge pile of pants on the chair, look up, and before me is a three-way mirror. Oh joy. My lucky day. NOT.

Here’s the trouble with me and jeans. I’m basically a lady of the Amazon and have an inseam of 34 inches. Add to that the fact that I’m no small potato and I’ve got a big butt—it ain’t no lie. If I am lucky enough to find jeans that fit length and derriere, they always are too big in the waist.

For the next 30 minutes the attendant periodically stops by my door…

“Can I get you another size”

“How are you doing in there Emellia?”

“Are you still in there? I haven’t seen you.”

“Yesss, I’m freaking still in here” I think to myself as I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with a scowl on my face. I’m glad she couldn’t see me. Looking up at the mirror my expression even scared me. 

With jeans scattered all over the floor, I was about to give up, when I noticed the hook on the wall where one. last. pair. hung.

“Just try on one last pair” I pled with myself while giving a quick pep talk. “This pair is the mecca–the jean of all jeans, the jeans that were made for this very moment, the jeans I have been waiting for my entire life.”

Gaining a glimmer of hope and excitement I quickly jumped into the last pair of jeans and guess what??

They were ridiculous.

D and I went home. With no jeans. The rest of the weekend I tried not to think about me and the trouble with jeans.

But then today I found myself mindlessly texting my bestie in Texas “what is the name of that clothing store in Rockwall that carries jeans that fit ladies with big butts?”

She text back, “haha, Maurices”.

I’m not kidding. I speak the truth. I jumped in the car, drove to the mall, and guess what? I have jeans. And they are cute. And they fit!

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