The other night, I was on the fringe of a momversation about designer jeans. One hundred and eighty dollar designer jeans. As much as I would like to own a pair of jeans that would lift my junk back into my trunk, I am unemployed. One hundred and eighty dollar jeans are out of the question.

I live in jeans. I’ve got my play-on-the-floor jeans and my work-outside jeans. I have a pair that I must wear with a belt and a pair with raggedy legs from being scuffed under my shoes. I have a couple of pairs I can wear if I fast for a day or two (these are my standing room only jeans) and then there’s the button fly pair of American Eagle jeans that I bought in college and can’t bring myself to give away. The problem is that none of them fit me quite right. They either give me a troubling case of missingassitis or they underscore the mommy pooch I am continually trying to hide.

Yesterday, with the ladies’ postulations ringing in my head, I shimmied, shook, and struggled into no fewer than ten pairs of jeans at TJ Maxx. None of them fit. Skinny jeans with a one-inch fly may look good on the hanger but they ain’t gonna cut it in real life. Not mine, anyway. Jeans that have bell bottoms wider than my own bottom look just plain silly. And I flat-out refuse to buy jeans that are pre-ripped or have more than one zipper. So what’s left? Mom Jeans? C’mon now! I have three kids and am well into my fourth decade but hells if I’m ready for that.

Let’s face it: most people look better clothed than naked. I know I do. Even so, if I don’t find a pair of damnmyasslooksgoodinthese jeans soon, I may start leaving my pants on the ground.

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