It's All About the Jeans

I tried on a pair of jeans this weekend that hadn't fit well in God knows how many depressing months. To put it another way, I could not get into these jeans before without several hops, yanks, and pulls, and lots of stomach-sucking in lying across the bed. Once I got into them, I would be out of breath and too tired to go wherever it was I wanted to look fierce at in the first place. Too tight, too uncomfortable, too much effort to get the zipper up and I'd woefully relegate my thighs into some comfy stretchy-fabric jeans that would give as much liberal freedom to my fat as possible.

Yesterday, they slid perfectly up my thighs and over my ass and the zipper...well, it was no strain to get it to the right place.

Now, speaking of my ass, which is one feature you will never see photo-spread across this blog (as comfortable as I am, or tell myself that I am about posting bare tummy-scarred pics), a few words are in order. I try not to look at my ass. Most of the time, I like to pretend it's not there. I avoid those triple mirrors in department stores that give you the 360 view, and I never turn around in my own full length mirror. I think a lot of women have this dysfunctional relationship with their ass. At least, I like to think that's why a lot of women go out with seriously bad panty lines, or butt-sagging fabric making their derriere look much worse than it is.

I do not look at my ass because of DNA. I didn't get much from my Mom's side physically speaking. Most of me comes from my father's portuguese half, the dark hair and eyes, my former ability to tan really, really well,etc... My ass however; as my sister so often liked to point out after adolescent puberty hit, came directly from Mom. Yeah, thanks Mom. It's not that I don't have one. Oh, believe me, it's there. But the only junk in the trunk are the flat tires. Flat, flat, flat. If you have a big ass, flat is not the word you want to be using. After all, I don't think 'Baby Got Back' was about a flat tundra land-surface the size of some of the smaller asian countries- grouped TOGETHER.

I actually had a boyfriend postulate once whether or not my ass would still be flat after losing some weight, because you 'never can tell.' Yes baby, once all the cellulite melts off in the gym, my ass will take the form of two perfect, bulbous mounds, just like you've dreamed. I laugh about it now, of course.

My ass will always be flat, though it may get smaller and smaller, short of medically assisted lifts, or fat deposited from my stomach to my gluts, or those new "lifting" panties they sell for $100 a pop in the boutiques that give you shelf-booty. F-dat.

The point of my long-winded rant is that when I tried on those jeans, the jeans that I couldn't fit into right for probably a year, that sat on their shelf collecting dust, my ass looked good! No, seriously. I turned around in the full-length mirror, cautiously, sighing, but actually smiled at what I saw.

I had some music on, and so I did what I shall henceforth call my 'booty dance of freedom'. Freedom from stretchy jean fabric, from fear and loathing of the 3-way mirror, and from booty shame. I put on a black cami, a grey sweater and my favorite Banana strappy heels (even in the 'short' length these babies are too long for me in flats) and I was ready for the beautiful September Sunday.

Oh, and yes, I felt fierce.