The Pants

It's been a life long struggle for me; "Mein Angst", as it were.

I just cannot find jeans that I love. In truth, I wear jeans only when I'm going out to run an errand or something, because exercise pants (code for, "pajama bottoms") just seem too casual, like I've given up entirely. Like that man who strolled onto the Lido deck the last day of our cruise in his "Holland America" bathrobe and flip flops. Really? And my follow up question is, perhaps he's figured out the secret of life?

But I digress. When I come home from running errands, I pass by the emergencies waiting for my return and face none of them until I am in my comfy pants again. 

I use the following list of musts from my Jeans Bible when I'm shopping for new denim. (I'd rather scrub toilets. Literally. And I know what literally means. I don't mean figuratively in this case.)

1. Must have high waist line so I can tuck my muffin top in. I'm way past low rise, ladies. Trust me.

2. Must have "short" written on the inseam description. Must. All 5'5" of me is in my torso. My eleven-year-old sister has longer legs than I.

3. Must not look used, a.ka. "faded", "distressed", "pre-washed". Add any one of those descriptions to my daily mommy badges of spit-up and toddler love prints, and I look like I run a day care. Even though I kinda do. I just don't want to look it.

4. Must not make my bum look like it belongs on a fifty-year-old. I'd like to look as young going as I do coming. At least for now, anyways.

5. Must possess magic powers that make me look ten pounds lighter than I am. 

These five absolutes make it impossible to find jeans I love. Impossible! (And I know what impossible means. I don't mean improbable in this case.)

In a recent conversation with my husband, Dr. Always Wear Jeans, he told me how much he loved, loved, loved, at the very least really liked the jeans he was wearing. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued. Don't we all want to know the secret to fame, money, beauty, success?

So he faithfully divulged his list of musts from his Jeans Bible.

1. Must have a lot of pockets. A higher number of pockets means a higher level of satisfaction in the function of the jeans. That is to say, five pockets pants equals “Lame Sauce Pants”. Ten pockets pants equals “Those'll Do Pants”. Twenty-five pockets pants equals “I Could Totally Stunt Double for Chuck Norris Pants”.

2. Must be one of two colors: dark wash, or camouflage. Dark wash for special occasions. Camo for all other occasions, including grocery shopping, four wheeling, impromptu hunting, running basic police drills, and scheduled x-rays at international airports.

3. Must have the right fit. And for him, there is only one fit. Straight leg. Always. My man won't be wearing skinny jeans.

4. Must be able to carry a concealed weapon in comfort for the entire day. (And this is the big one. I actually heard him sigh, "You know, I felt really comfortable with a gun in my pants all day.")

Well, no wonder I'm up the Jeans Creek without a paddle! Too many pockets clashes with all of my rolls, I have no chance of making camo invisible (even to an elk!), there is no such thing as a universal women's fit, and I couldn't carry a gun comfortably in my pants to save my life.

And just so I thoroughly embrace my defeat, I'll confess that I'm typing this in my "exercise pants", I have no plans for accomplishing errands any day soon, and my hand gun is a comfortable distance from my person. 

Ergo, I do not wear the pants in our family. And we're all better off that way.