Denim Inflicted Torture

I love shopping.  Nothing electrifies my girly-self more than walking into a department store where Sephora handbags are sitting atop a glossy glass shelf.   The manikins, clothed in the latest seasonal attire and accessories, are conveniently placed atop a raised stand with sale signs at every angle.  I see the satisfaction on every female face as they walk out of the store carrying their handbags filled with material goodies.  Us women love beautiful things, we love new things; its part of our nature, it’s in our blood.

However, there is one clothing item to which I shutter with hatred when shopping for…jeans!  Yes, I absolutely loathe shopping for jeans, and avoid it like the plague.  I have picky tendencies; a light comfortable fit with cute seam work is just up my alley, but can be difficult to find.  Charlotte Russe has always been my go-to place for denims.  Nonetheless, there always seems to be a three way feud between my conscious, my wallet, and the price tags, all of which are non-negotiable. 

Friday was payday, and I couldn’t put it off any longer, I needed jeans.  I walked into Charlotte Russe and was elated to find out the store was having a $20.00 jean sale.  Score!  I hit the racks and pulled a couple of pairs and headed for the dressing room.  The following conditions must be met to ensure a  quality purchase: an easy fit, a successful 360 degree mirror inspection, and finally, sitting down to make sure the jeans don’t ride below my butt (I believe the term “crack kills” is the trend now-a-days.  Girls must like to show off their G-strings because I’ve seen far too many in public).  All four were a perfect fit and I finally had it narrowed down to two when I heard a knock on the dressing room door.

How are those jeans working out for you?

Oh they’re great, thank you.

Can I see them on you?

I reluctantly open the door.

Oh I love those jeans, but I think you need a smaller size.

No.  I’m good.

No really, you do. 

She suddenly lifts my shirt and pulls on the belt loops.

Wow.  Can we say invasion of privacy?  I politely back away.

See, they’re big on you.

No they’re not; they fit like normal jeans should. 

She grabbed a pair that was hanging on the rack and takes off, stating,

I’m going to get you a smaller size, I’ll be back.

A minute passes….

Here, try these on and let me see them on you.

I hesitantly put them on  knowing very well it'd be a waste of my time.  With needful effort and sucking in, I was able to button them.  I open the door to find her standing right there...(???)

Oh those are perfect on you!

Uuhh yeah if you like seeing all the junk in my trunk.

She responds with a laugh, although, I don’t think she knew I was being serious.

I’m going to go with my original size.

Why?!

Because anyone who has to wiggle into their jeans and lay on their bed to button their pants needs a serious reality check.  Plus, I don’t want meralgia paresthetica (a nerve condition which causes your leg to go numb and/or tingle from wearing jeans that are too tight).  And I don’t want to end up on the people of Walmart website with a glorious muffin top for all America to see. 

.

.

.

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Okay… I didn’t really say that.

They’re just more comfortable.  Maybe after eating a few more apples I’ll come back for the smaller 

size.  But thanks for your help.

I could see the look of disappointment on her face as I walked away.  No offense, but she is not one that I’d ever go to for fashion advice.

I went to the register.  Each pair of jeans was originally $38.00.  I was the lucky winner at the register that day and won a $10.00 off coupon.  My overall purchase came to $34.99, a total savings of $41.00!  And that my friends, is how you shop!

This dressing room attendant experience got me thinking, why do women inflict pain upon themselves to look good?  I understand the whole “pain is beauty, beauty is pain” quote in the sense of an eye-brow wax or something minute like that.  But why do women insist on purchasing a pair of shoes that is two sizes too small simply because they’re cute?  Why do women buy a size six pant when the very well know their a size eight?  Why do some insist on wearing five inch stiletto heels to work, school, or a night on the town, do you want to break your ankle?  And why do some buy bras that dig into their chest and push their breasts into strange conformations?  Of course, this is just me.  Don’t ever be disappointed when you see me in comfortable, form fitting clothes sporting my flats, flip-flops, and two inch heels.