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Ben and I went out for dinner Saturday night. And, in an effort to notch things up a bit, I let out my pony tail and changed out of my sport bra.
While I was in the shower I thought about what I’d wear, and decided on a pair of jeans that I’d purchased years ago, two pregnancies ago, in Chicago. And people, these are the kind of jeans that require you to bring your A-Game whenever you try them on. The kind that CANNOT go into the dryer, since there isn’t a percentage of spandex in these jeans.
I bought them back in my twenties. A time when I didn’t have to think about things like the spandex content in my pants, or hairs on my chin. But, it’s all different now. Now, I’m all about legislated bans on fabric that doesn’t contain spandex, along with BPA’s in plastics.
Anyway, Saturday night I walked into our room with the fireplace poker, ski googles and a pair of oven mitts and headed for my closet. Then, I gingerly approached those jeans the same way you’d approach a cornered raccoon in the garage. "It’s o.k. little fella, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to try...you...on..."
Then there was a lot of wrestling, crying. Arms and legs were flailing, various Yoga positions enlisted. Several deep knee bends and a few high kicks later, they were on.
I insisted that Ben take this picture before we left, since I know the jeans and I won’t be together much longer. What you can’t see is my muffin top hanging over the waistband in the back, or that I’m contracting every muscle from my rib cage to my knees. BUT I AM. Continue reading...
