Monday, March 27, 2006

A Fashion Tragedy

The other night while watching TV, I felt a tug near the knee on my jeans. I ignored it much like one might ignore warning signs in a budding relationship. He blew me off without a phone call? But, but, but later on he had a really really good excuse. Yeah right, thinks your eye-rolling girlfriend--you only see, or in the case of my jeans, feel what you want to feel. A couple minutes later when I shifted, I felt another pull, which I could no longer ignore.

I knew what I would see when I looked down--a budding rip across the knee of my favorite jeans. And not just my favorite of jeans that are in my possession now, but a top five lifetime favorite. I liked the wash, the stitching, the weight and most of all the fit. Last year, when I was in search of skinny jeans and could found them nowhere (including--for shame--some of my favorite boutiques), I discovered the ultimate pair at H&M.

What was especially crucial about them was that even though they were skinny jeans, they fit me in the calf. In the rush to offer skinny jeans, far too many companies are offering jeans whose fit has yet to be worked out for girls who aren't model-sized. Plus, they're often cut too low, a fact that's exasperated by excessively narrow cut thighs and calves, which have the effect of pulling the jeans down even further.

Now I'm going to try and repair my ex-favorite jeans the best I can, but I have to face reality--they are no longer perfect. Last night I took a trip to H&M, well, ostensibly I went to Blades to buy some inline skates, but at my heart I wanted to find a replacement for my once-perfect jeans.

I knew I would fail and I did. Not only were my jeans of course long gone, but the closest replacement was cut ridiculously low at the waist. So low that we're talking likelihood of butt crack exposure very high even when standing. For two seconds I tried to tell my self that a nice long tunic would hide all that, but I couldn't bring myself to buy into a lie. Watch me now as a I spend the rest of my days attempting to hunt down a replacement pair. Why do I get the feeling that like Rick and Ilsa of Casablanca, it was never meant to be?

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