Last week we were about to go see Rogue One finally. Yes, finally.
I was trying to pick out something to wear and was feeling Star-Wars-Festive. I have this really cool, long sleeved Star Wars shirt and figured I’d wear that. But the leggings I own that match it were all dirty. Which meant I’d have to wear jeans. And at this point I hate jeans. My jeans judge me in a way my LuLaRoe leggings never will…
My LuLaRoe Leggings Don’t Judge Me
Seriously, though, jeans.
Okay. Well. The shirt was sort of hoodie like…
I used to love wearing hoodies with jeans!
At this point, I can’t tell you when the last time I wore jeans and a hoodie was. The last time I wore jeans is stamped into my brain, it was miserable. But, it was super hot then. Now it’s cold.
I can totally wear jeans, right?
I pulled out one of my formerly favorite pairs of jeans and started to put them on. I got them up to my hips. I recall staring down at these cruel jeans thinking, I’m not shaped like this.
Which reminded me of my all-the-time problem with jeans.
I could and can never find jeans that are shaped the way I am. It’s like the most impossible search ever. And I’ve bought $10 to $100 pairs of jeans in the attempt to find ones that fit me.
Which leads me to the conclusion that jeans are evil dictators. They tell me to conform to their shape. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to suffer baggy butt jeans just to get something to fit my thighs. I grew up riding horses which means I’ve got thick, muscular thighs (Okay, these days there’s a layer of fat over those muscles, but whatever. Not the point!). I’m never going to have a thigh gap. My thighs do not taper like jeans think they should.
I am my own shape.
And jeans do not respect that.
This weekend I’m going to go through my jeans, try them all on, and I’m likely to just chunk ’em all.
At this point, I’m thirty-something (I have to ask my fiance how old I am, and he’s not here. Hey, at least I’ve stopped automatically responding that I’m twenty-three!). I’m comfortable with who I am. How I’m shaped. And the last thing I need to do is wear uncomfortable clothes.
So jeans, I’m breaking up with you. Likely forever. And I’m okay with that.
My leggings don’t judge me.