We’re all friends here, right? So, friends, can I tell you a little secret? Okay…deep breath…here we go: my favorite jeans – the dark wash, skinny jeans that give me the ass of a Kardashian (albeit a lesser Kardashian, like a Karole or a Klaus) – are, in actuality, maternity jeans.
That felt good. Glad to get that off my chest.
Before you judge me too harshly, I’d like to clarify that they are just barely maternity pants. They’re the kind with the ever so slightly scrunchy waist; the ones you wear when your regular non-prego pants are too small, and the “rubber band trick” doesn’t work anymore. They aren’t the full-blown, up to your tits, flesh-colored panel monstrosities that I boasted I’d never wear (and once I hit seven months pregnant, vowed I would never take off). I swear, they’re just a shade away from jeggings – but the tag doesn’t lie, my friends.
So now that we’re really in deep here, are you ready for the second part of my secret? Oh yeah, there’s a second part. Because I’m nothing if not mysterious. An enigma, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in bacon. That’s right, I said bacon. Stretchy pants, remember? So here’s our second layer of secrecy: those full-blown, up to your tits, flesh colored panel monstrosity pants I mentioned earlier? I miss them. I miss them every single day.
According to all manner of lady magazines, the correct designation for my figure is “apple-shaped”, because that’s much nicer than “flubber guts”, which is my own affectionate term. Really, being apple-shaped (as opposed to a banana or a kumquat, or some other, sexier fruit) simply translates to dopey supermarket checkers asking “when are you due?” on a semi-regular basis. My typical response is something along the lines of, “32 months ago, thank you very much! Now, hand over the pint of Ben & Jerry’s – I have feelings to eat!” Bonehead store clerks notwithstanding, the most unpleasant thing about having a round fruit-shaped physique is that there are no pants in the entire world that fit me properly. I’ve scoured the earth in search of jeans with pooch-concealing superpowers, but inevitably I find myself defeated by the evil, apple-hating clothing conglomerates and their unflattering dressing room lighting. If the ass of the pants fits, the waist does not. If the waist fits, I’m left with a butt that’s as sad and deflated and Lindsay Lohan’s hopes of being taken seriously as an actress. My beloved maternity pants were the only ones to ever save me from this humiliation. They let me squeeze myself into tushie-flattering sizes while concealing all that is wrong and evil. They were my muffin-top slaying wonder pants and without them my life is empty. And jiggly. So very jiggly.
So there you have it. I have bravely bared my soul and my stretchy waistband to you, dear readers. Judge me if you like, but I’ve had a taste of the good life and I don’t want to go back. So I’ll keep rocking those skinny jeans with the scarlet ‘M’ on the tag until they fall apart at the seams. Because ice cream is always better than sit-ups. Always.