I have this pair of Old Navy jeans.
I like them. They’re comfortable, they’re not too long and they fit.
Well, they fit…until I start moving.

There’s nothing wrong with a little stretch. Stretch is helpful. It’s comfortable and forgiving.
But must stretch stretch so much that I have to adjust my jeans every time I move? The way I’m always hiking them up, you’d think I lost some weight or have some sort of twitching disorder.
Nope. It’s the stretch doing it’s job.
Far and above it’s call of duty.

Every time I wear these jeans I wish I hadn’t. I’m annoyed all day, but I keep coming back to them.
I don’t know why?
I also don’t know why I don’t wear a belt?
Seriously, why don’t I wear a belt?

I hate jeans. It’s harder to find a good pair of jeans than a flattering bathing suit (now that the tennis skirt style bottom has become widely available).
I’m short. My legs are short, but I can’t wear petite pants because they’re too short in the waist.
It’s hard to find “short” jeans that I can get over these birthin‘ hips, don’t gap in the waist or make my legs look like sausages about to pop from their casing.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I’m cheap?

Finding pants that aren’t so long that they cover my feet completely, don’t look like old lady pants and fit my budget is nearly impossible.

I suppose I should be thankful that summer is around the corner and my jeans are headed to their highly anticipated vacation spot in a Rubbermaid tub.
However, the idea of wearing shorts creates an entirely different set of issues. Issues that I assured myself would be dealt with this fall and winter. Guess what? They weren’t dealt with. They’re back, baby. And more problematic than ever.


I like the idea of bermuda shorts because they hide the multitude of sins that have manifested themselves in my thighs.
However, when you’re short, bermuda shorts aren’t shorts.
They’re capris.

I quit.



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