Jean Therapy

I found the jeans I want to die in.

Bring on all the nose-bleeding, carpet-wetting, pudding-haired preschoolers. The You're The Worst Parents In The Entire World I'd Rather Live In The Car! adolescents. The I'm Sorry, Ma'am, But We Don't Seem To Have What You're Looking For department store clerks. Suddenly, I'm not afraid any more. Suddenly, there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Suddenly, I turned around, and there they were. The Jeans.

My husband's theory is that the aging female executives at Levi's finally got mad as hell and announced (hollered! shrieked! decried!) they weren't going to take it any more. No more jeans with a waistline one centimeter above the No-Fly-Zone. To which, heretofore, the only alternative has been "Mom Jeans." And all you women of a certain age know what those are.

It seems our sisters in the control room felt our collective baby-boomed-out pain and corralled all that fashion angst into demand for a jean designed for the females of Our Generation, one with style, attitude, Spandex, and a waistline where god meant for there to be one...at The Waist, Stupid.

I hate to tell you, Girlz of Gen X, but it's going to happen to you, too. All you hormone-rampant hotties with Scarlett O'Hara stats (do you even know who Scarlett O'Hara is?!?), enjoy it while you can. Push those jeans down as low as the law allows. Walk it, flaunt it, parade it on YouTube. One day you'll be strutting around, minding your own personal space, text-messaging Jupiter, and the next thing you know, you'll be bellying up at Starbucks for your daily bagel-and-latte and you'll be all, what the?!? What's that...that thing in my pants?!? How did a pair of rolled-up socks get stuck in my waistband?!?

Dream on, Sweetie. That is not a pair of socks. That is your heretofore-unbeknownst-to-you-and-the-rest-of-the-world waistline, burgeoning even as you gasp, even as you remind the gods and all their brothers that you run eleven-and-a-half miles a day and eat all your 800-calorie vegan meals standing on your head stark naked in a sauna and sleep on a slant board to counter the effects of gravity.

And it is, Dear Ones, a situation of the utmost gravity. Because the gods Do Not Give A Flying Lowrise Fuck. Because try as you might, you cannot counter the effects of this seismic shift in the nature of the universe, the universe that is You, Baby. That universe is in the process of expanding, inevitably and inexorably, and there's not a thing you can do about it. You might manage to remain marginally buff if you work at it 24/7 for the rest of your natural life, but, after a certain age, your silhouette will be more Gumby than Scarlett. Trust me on this. Best to learn to accept the things you cannot change, and the wisdom to know the difference between one pair of bootcuts and another.

And so I raise my glass...which is no longer an hourglass but a beer mug...to all those aging heroines at Levi's. I bow down before you. I genuflect. I thank you for your bravery, your doggedness, your hormone-loss. I suggest a National Night Out of Our Minds with (Tummy-Control! Sits-at-the-Waist! Two-Percent-Spandex!) Glee, to celebrate the bringing to fruition of Your Vision. Your Vision on behalf of all of your sisters out here in LeviLand who have been hollering from the windows for long enough.

You Heard Us! One for All and All for One! 512s* Forever!





(*Senior Discount does not apply.)