The Jean Pool
All I wanted was a new pair of jeans to reward my dieting diligence. Besides without belted support, the crotch of my old pants hung to my knees. Trust me. A fifty-five year old, gray-haired woman in hip-hop attire is not attractive.
I love wearing jeans. As a child, my mother took me to Uncle Cecil’s commissary every September to purchase a new pair. Uncle Cecil’s store was an old-fashioned country store that sold everything from food and dry goods to livestock feed and caskets. Wrangler cowboy jeans were the only brand Uncle Cecil sold. If one wanted to wear Levis, it meant a 25-mile drive to the closest town - something my Mother refused to do. Why drive to the next town when you could purchase a perfectly good pair down the street?
I switched to Levis for my college years proudly displaying “W 34, L 34″on the waist’s brown and red label. As my girth increased over the years I was embarrassed for the size to be viewed by the world. I switched to large, baggy, unflattering jeans and continued to wear off brands until my recent body shrink.
Entering the store, I confidently walked to the women’s section only to be overwhelmed by a ten-foot wall of jeans that seemed to stretch the length of the store. Turning around I was overcome by acres of oblong and circular racks with enough jeans to outfit a third-world country. I remained calm and sought sales help. A Britney Spears look alike with a cartoon character voice and a nametag that read “Tiffany” asked, “May I help you?”
A surge of confidence returned as I said, “I would like to buy a new pair of jeans.” Before I could reveal my new size, Tiffany asked, “What kind of jeans would you like?”
Kind? Blue jeans. What did she mean, “kind?”
Tiffany recognized my dazed look and helpfully offered, “First, we’ll decide what kind of jean you want. Then we’ll decide what style. This rack,” she said pointing to an oblong frame, “is Calvin Klein. That stand is Liz Claiborne; that one is Gloria Vanderbilt…” On she went, twirling and pointing to racks of Rocky Mountain, Curly Girl, Ralph Lauren and names I’ve never heard of. My head was pounding, “I just want a pair of Wranglers or Levis,” I sputtered.
“We don’t sell Wranglers. But the Levis are over here.”
We sauntered to the wall with the red Levis sign. “What style do you want? Bell bottoms like the ones I am wearing are in style.” As she modeled her size four frame, I realized my bells bottomed out years ago. Adding injury to insult, Tiffany asked, “Did you want to try some hip huggers?” I decided to spare her my oxymoronic hip hugger theory that only bodies with no hips looked good in hip huggers. Assuming no, Tiffany continued, “What leg style would you like?” Leg style? I just wanted the leg to hit the top of my shoes.
“Straight leg? Tapered leg? Boot cut? Or flair, which is not as large as a bell bottom.” I could feel an anxiety attack coming on. “Straight, I guess.” I mumbled. “Great. What kind of fit?” I stared at her clueless. Sensing my confusion she continued. “We have relaxed fit, classic fit, regular and slim.”
“Uh, classic, I guess,” I replied with wilting enthusiasm.
“This bin is classic fit. What length do you wear? Short, medium or long?” My face was turning red. A menopausal stress induced hot flash was seconds away. I had no idea buying jeans would require the decision making skills of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“What type of fabric?” Tiffany persisted. “Soft denim? Regular denim? Stonewashed? Acid washed? Stretch? Rivets on the pockets? Plain pockets?”
I was near tears. Suddenly an attractive forty-age woman appeared. “Try these on,” she smiled. “My name is Karen and if that pair doesn’t fit, I’ll bring you another.”
A perfect fit. Arriving home, I placed an index card with “Levis, size 14, classic” in the important stuff file. Next time I will not drown in the jean pool.
