I'd Gladly Trade You My Cow For Some Magic Jeans

I absolutely despise shopping for jeans for myself. It's a painstaking venture to say the least. I will literally spend hours upon hours of my time, drive to all surrounding malls, and try on hundreds of pair of jeans before I find just the right pair...and by right pair, I mean that they must be just the right color (dark but not too dark), they can't have blasted out color on the thighs or the bum, no weird whiskering, they need to have a long inseam, little to no stretch at all, and most importantly, they must must absolutely must have magical powers in the back pockets. So you can imagine that when I find that special pair, I buy several pairs at once because if you have ever found a pair of jeans that you loved the way you looked in them, you know all too well that you will not be able to find that exact pair next season.

As it turns out, I thought I would take advantage of the Tax Free Weekend and back to school sales and start my jean search early this year. I have noticed that there is a particular store that sells jeans that seem to look flattering on everyone and it just so happened that this particular store was having a huge sale on their denim. Once I got there, I grabbed 6 pairs all different cuts and headed to the fitting room. I'll confess that this is a store I don't frequent much simply because it has a high ma'am factor. Every employee, including the manager, appeared to be under the legal drinking age, and every single one of those precious tots referred to me as ma'am. "Can I help you ma'am?" "Pardon me, ma'am." Are you finding everything okay, MA'AM?" UGH!! Why don't they just call me "Old Lady" and offer me a wheel chair?! When exactly did I go from being a "Miss" to a "Ma'am?" Maybe that's why I like old men so much (and I don't mean that as creepy as it sounds). They just make me feel young and pretty. They never ever call me ma'am. It's always, "Hey there, kid" or "How are you sweetheart?" Would it really hurt these teenagers to call me sweetheart? I'm just sayin'.

When I got to the fitting room, I was greeted by quite possibly the friendliest 19-year old boy that I have ever met. I bet his official job title is something like Fitting Room Schmoozer, and let me just say, he was very good at his job. He managed to make everyone who crossed that threshold feel welcome and quite possibly even excited about trying on pants...and that's something I haven't felt since I, myself,  was 19. So there I was in my fitting stall eager to be able  to tell my beloved, George, that not only did I find my magic jeans at the first store but I bought 3 pair for the price I normally pay for one (after all, magic jeans don't come cheap in the postpartum years). My Personal Schmoozer had already informed me that these jeans stretch quite a bit so I may want to go down a size. Let me just say I abhor stretchy jeans. When you wear stretchy jeans, you inevitably look as though you need a diaper change and quite frankly, with all the ma'aming I get these days, I don't want sport that look. I tried on a second style that didn't seem as stretchy but alas, they were short, so My Personal Schmoozer found a pair with a longer inseam, and when he brought them to my stall, he said as he did to every other woman in the fitting room, "When you get those on, I'd love to see them on you. I'll give you my honest opinion." Well, the heck that was ever going to happen. I'm fairly certain that I laughed out loud when he said that. Did he really think that I was going to let him see if these jeans had magic in the back pockets?! Upon leaving the fitting room, he asked how I liked them and I told him quite honestly that I am not a fan of stretchy pants to which he replied, "Well, our jeggings don't have a lot of stretch." Jeggings. And so, the search continues.