damn denim

This is a post where I tell you something about me that I think you’ll think is abnormal, but you tell me how normal I really am.  got that?

I hate washing my jeans.  It’s something I dread because I love my jeans once they’ve been worn a little (okay, I can’t lie to you, I wear them a lot.)  Sometimes I go two weeks without washing my jeans, and I when I say jeans I do not mean jeans plural, I mean jeans as in one pair of jeans.  Because that’s all that fits me.  I just recently was able to return to my old jeans, a pair of bootcut Levi’s that I loved prior to my pregnancy.  When I put them on, I would be lying to you if I told you that they immediately fit great, because they didn’t.  They squeezed me in places I did not want to be squeezed (at least not by a pair of jeans.)  When I was younger, you know, before children, I would put jeans on, sometimes tight jeans and they would be just that – tight.  But now they are tight and other body parts, i.e. my stomach instantly oozes out of the top of my jeans and hangs over, perched like a bird on a fence.  A very large, flabby bird.

It’s attractive, to say the least.

But after a few days of wearing these jeans, MY GOD they turn into the greatest article of clothing ever.  They’re comfortable, they look a little nicer than my other alternative, yoga pants, and they look pretty good with my everyday graphic tees.  To say I am a fashion icon would be an understatement.

So, for the past two weeks, since squeezing into my size 10 jeans that used to fit me nicely, it was time to wash them, which was a hard decision because MY GOD they feel so nice and really, they didn’t look dirty, maybe I could go another week.  But I couldn’t do that to my family or strangers at the grocery store, so Saturday morning I reluctantly, oh so reluctantly, dropped my jeans into the evil, washing machine which not only cleans but also magically shrinks denim.   

I put on my black yoga pants and did crazy things this weekend, I worked outside in the yard and exercised.    When I pulled my precious jeans out of the washer, I let them air dry because the dryer is a big huge jerk that likes to make me feel fat, really fat.  But last night, in an effort to de-wrinkle my jeans (what’s an iron???) I placed them in the bitch-ass dryer for 10 minutes. 

This morning I put my jeans on, they squeezed my thighs on their way up, I knew I was in trouble.  I buttoned them, which should have been easier than it was and I watched my belly start to ooze out of my pants, like lava in a volcano.  Except I was the opposite of hot.

I could not believe these were the same pair of jeans that I had worn so lovingly on Friday night.  I felt betrayed.  Had they secretly changed to a size eight?  I searched the tags and found they were, in fact, the same size, the same jeans.

So now I must start the process of getting my jeans all stretched out and dirty once again – a long, grueling, necessary process in order to achieve the level of comfort I need in order to be a decent human being to others. 

I know you must be thinking I need a larger size, which I would agree with, except I bought a larger size, but within five minutes of putting those jeans on I could pull my jeans down without unbuttoning them.  Although they were very comfortable, they were hideous.

You may think I need to buy a different pair of size 10 jeans, perhaps in a different cut, but that would require me to shop and look in mirrors in uncomfortable dressing rooms where nothing fits and well, I’d rather skip my morning coffee than torture myself like that.  And that says A LOT.  (Are you there, Stacy and Clinton?  It’s me, Margaret.)

So, please, tell me, are you like me?  Do you go days, even weeks without washing your jeans?  or am I disgusting pig and now you are going to break up with me?