If you looked through all the many pairs of jeans in my closet, you'd probably wonder if I plan on opening my own GAP. As a matter of fact, after peering in there last week, one of my friends did exactly that. Her voice took on that timbre you hear the psychologists use on
Hoarders when they ask people exactly why they have a dresser drawer full of bread ties - incredulity tinged with horror.
I have 32 pairs.
If you closely examined them, you'd see that they run the gamut from a size eight to a twelve and are all in the dowdy style formally known to disdainful teenagers across America as "Mom Jeans". Truth be told, most of them were bought before I even became a mom and all were specially selected over the past ten years because they share a magical trait: They allow me to bend down without grossing out everyone around me.
The first time I saw low rise jeans in action was at the Nordstrom's shoe salon in Chicago, circa 2001. Sitting next to me was a stylish girl with glossy brown hair and a chic white furry coat. She asked to see an adorable pink Prada mule in a size six and when she bent down to try it on, I could see all the way to Uranus. Because this was the innocent early 00's, I thought there was a possibility she was having a wardrobe malfunction and immediately bent down to tell her. Then I stopped short, wondering what to say to someone whose cranny was on exhibition for all the Miracle Mile? Besides, it was approximately four degrees outside, so she must have felt an Alberta Clipper caressing her nether regions. I kept my mouth shut and instead vowed to never, ever wear a pair jeans like that.
Fast forward a few years into the future and the only jeans I can find in stores barely graze my pubic bones. My lower back is aching from having to curtsy every time I bend down to pick something up and despite my best efforts, most of the metropolitan area has seen half my backside. Daily I curse the manufacturers of low rise jeans and the final straw comes when my cell phone falls to the floor at a Starbucks and for a few moments I consider leaving it there instead of mooning everyone in an attempt to retrieve it.
That was the day I started my high rise quest, mostly on eBay, the graveyard of unfashionable clothing. Over the following years my collection expanded along with me. Size eight gave way to ten, which eventually led to twelves. I kept them all, with the exception of the pair I bought while pregnant with twins, which contained so much material that, if disassembled, I easily could have made a queen bedspread.
As unfashionable as they are, I won't be getting rid of them. They give me a sense of calm security in a world gone low-rise wild. But I AM looking forward to working my way back into the eight's as I run toward my (HALF) marathon goal. And I know I'm not the only one out there with a closet full of clothes in multiple sizes. It seems to be a common denominator for lots of women - we hold onto the hope that one day we'll have the time, energy and drive to reclaim our past, no matter how far-fetched.
After my friend looked through my closet and I explained to her my rationale she asked, "But would you even WANT to wear these clothes? Will they even be fashionable anymore?"
And that's the beauty of it. I don't have to worry about it.
Because they never were.
Posts
