Junk In My Trunk

(Update: I forgot the mucho importante picture the first time around, but it's there now for a visual aid. Not a visual aid of ME, but still.)

A confusing thing has been happening lately.

Not anything terribly important or central to daily functioning, but confusing nonetheless.

It's my pants. They don't fit right any more.

Last week, I pulled my favorite jeans on - the ones that are snug but not too tight, flattering in the important areas - but they suddenly looked hideous. Hide your eyes, please don't laugh, scare the children HIDEOUS. Definitely too tight. Far from flattering - more like embarrassing.

Weird, I thought, these aren't loosening up after being in the dryer...weird.

So I pulled some other jeans on, but they looked awful too. 4 pairs of ill-fitting jeans later, I was downright ticked off. WHAT was going on? There were muffin tops and gaping buttons and pinching seams...nothing good. On top of being too tight, it's like the jeans had all shrunk an inch or two, leaving me with high waters cutting off my circulation from knee to hip. WHAT was going on?!

After peeling the last pair of jeans off, I glared at the mirror - still upset that these jeans had somehow changed from good to bad for reasons that I couldn't figure out. My irritated scowl was getting the best of me;I had to look away. The first place my eyes landed was my hips. Then my thighs.

I frowned.

I pivoted and saw my rear. I gasped.

I'm...filling out.

It's really not that confusing when you take into account my love of donuts. This doesn't mean it's any more accepted. But the truly confusing part is that my weight hasn't changed - it's only shifted around on my now-softer body.

There is one benefit so far. It became immediately necessary for me to go jeans shopping. I was pumped. My jeans looked so frighteningly awful that it would have been a crime if I didn't find at least one new pair, so I took myself to the mall and started gathering prospects. It's been a while since I last went jeans shopping. A while, as in, about 4 years: before Mia was born. My body had changed immensely over the course of two pregnancies and I wasn't exactly sure what size I would even need. I couldn't remember what size the too-tight jeans were. 2? 4? 6? Seriously, I was at a loss.

Roaming through the racks, I picked up a few cute pairs in a variety of sizes. I thought the twos looked the most like they would fit, but I grabbed some fours just in case. I like to cover my bases. Apparently, the style now is for skinny legs - what I've always considered MOM JEANS. These skinny jeans were everywhere - almost so prevalent that I couldn't find anything else - so I put some on my pile and made for the fitting rooms.

I was assaulted with the view of my changing shape in the mirror again , so I quickly pulled the first pair of jeans on to save my ego. Rather, I tried to pull them on. I'd grabbed the size two skinny leg jeans and they couldn't actually qualify as clothing - they didn't go past my thighs. Trouble. Those jeans had looked just my size. But that was OK. I'm a mom. Size two is in my past.

Next up? Size 4.

Next down? Size 4. No dice. These went all the way up, but caused an awful pinching pain when I tried to button them. So weird.

Packing up my selection of sizes, I headed back out to the sales floor for the next size up. And to rid myself of the skinny jeans. I didn't like the feeling of my knees being squeezed by jeans just when I was looking for more room and comfort. This time, I grabbed the sixes. Fully expecting them to be too big. I was sure I'd need to go to a different store where the fours fit me better.

Back in the fitting room, I slipped into the sixes and I think I uttered an audible sigh of contentment. There was no squeezing. No pinching. Definitely no muffin-topping. All was well, except they were too long. And really, what could I expect from a brand of jeans that shared a name with a fashion magazine? Look at this tag:

To fit into these jeans as they're cut, I'd have to grow legs up to my collarbone. But they felt so comfortable (as well as being affordable) that I could justify getting them hemmed to my length.

When I got them home and pulled them out of the bag to show Justin my fabulous new jeans, I was stunned at how laaaaarge they looked. I unfolded them....and unfolded them...and unfolded them some more. These things just kept going, and the backside seemed to take up more space than I should have been able to fill up. I quickly snatched them back into the bag, embarrassed for Justin to see how BIG these pants were.

Surprisingly, he didn't notice. Do husbands ever? Don't their eyes just glaze over while they pretend to admire our purchases? At least I'll be less embarrassed in jeans that fit me right, as opposed to some my old tight pants that might as well be a second skin. I'm good with that.

So here I am. Feeling good about my bigger jeans.

Feeling womanly.

But if I start feeling any more womanly, steer me gently away from the donuts.