Today's post comes to you from the infamous Toulouse. You should know that she is both cool and the gang. We both sometimes get to kick it with the guys on Dadsaster and that's actually a really good indicator of awesomeness.
Here's a little more about her:
Toulouse is a writer and SAHM of 2 stinky boys who works hard to exercise her family’s sense of humor by writing about them on her blog, Toulouse & Tonic and over-sharing on facebook, twitter and pinterest. While her methods are unorthodox, she is succeeding at making her kids hate her one post at a time.
Today, I took my generous apple bottom and bodacious tatas shopping. Sick of squeezing myself into that one pair of perpetually formula-stained leggings and then desperately digging through laundry baskets to find a clean shirt without a hole, I became determined to buy a couple of cute things that would turn me into a semi-chic mama.
I found some skinny jeans I liked in the first store I entered. Boo-ya!
I held up my “usual” size 6, willing them to fit, unwilling to admit even to myself that I hadn’t been a size 6 since my first child was a zygote. I held up the size 8, examining the thigh area with a furrowed brow. And finally, I frowned at the 10, aghast at how much denim would be required to contain my ass.
Resigned, I took the jeans to the dressing room, disrobing under the florescent lights. I stuck one leg in and pulled. As they approached the lower thigh area, they got stuck and wouldn’t go up any further. I tugged. Do your job, lycra! I wedged more of my thigh into the leg of the pants. I mean, I literally pushed my thigh a handful at a time into the jeans like I was stuffing a turkey. I glanced into the mirror. The jeans looked like a snake that’d swallowed a whole gopher. And was that muffin thigh? Oh God. I had muffin thigh!
I reserved my very best cursing for moments like this and so I let it loose as I wondered why the hell the store didn’t provide skinny mirrors if they were gonna encourage you to put on skinny pants?
I sighed. There was no prayer these jeans were gonna complete their journey to my hips. It was time for them to go.
I began to yank at them with all my strength and I swear the floor shook when I finally unwedged my thigh from the jeans’ grip. As I finally worked them below my knee, I turned them inside out and started pulling but then they got stuck on my foot. I yanked hard, lost my balance and landed on my bloated ass on dressing room carpet that smelled exactly like pee, the jeans still clinging to my foot.
And that was it. I’d been defeated by a pair of skinny jeans. I could go back out there and get the 12, maybe the 14. There’s nothing wrong with those sizes, except that my mind can’t accept them because I’m sick in the head.
I didn’t even wanna try anything else on. It was over. I put it all back and went to the liquor store, where everything I try on fits like a glove.