Jeans are made of evil and spite. There has never been a time in my life when they have fit me properly, regardless of whether I was in porkchop mode or on the verge of anorexia. Thanks to the hearty plow-pulling peasant genetics that I inherited from BOTH sides of the family, I have been blessed with a compact, muscular build. This was great when I was in shape, and could run around in bikinis, but not so much after a couple of kids and parking my ass at a desk all day long for years. 5 ft 2″ + major muscle + layer of fat = fashion disaster. NOTHING looks good on “ice cream cone legs” (tiny ankles, massive thighs.) Adding insult to injury, I have a tiny waist but wide hips, so anything that fits in the thighs/hips/rump is falling off me in the waist, and if it fits in the waist, I could never pull it up past my knees. Le sigh.
Through some amazing and divine intervention of the Lard Almighty, I managed to finally find not one but TWO pairs of jeans that fit me just right. Even more miraculous? Whole LINES of their jeans fit me just right. *cue the singing of angels on high*
My first revelation: praise be to the Gap. Their line of Curvy Petite jeans are just what I’d been looking for. I don’t need to hack 4″ of the bottom. They’re not low rise and falling off. They’re not Mom Jeans. They have ample room in thighs/hips/derriere, but are not sagging at the waist. They look great with a boot or a heel, and come in dark and light colors.
The second revelation: meet Lois Jeans. I had scored a pair on a post-Xmas shopping expedition to Lolly’s, a local boutique in Chilliwack. These things are the best thing to happen to jeans, ever. They suck in what needs to be sucked in, and fit. just. perfectly.
Of course, the good times must come to an end. Unlike Neil Diamond, I don’t get to be forever in blue jeans, because my massive thighs of doom are trying out as the stunt double for an upcoming Incredible Hulk flick. Thighs angry! Thighs smash jeans!
Totally shot, with no hope of salvage. The fabric in the entire crotch-thigh region is threadbare.
Did I mention that both pairs are afflicted? Yeah.
When I was still skinny and in high school/college (I actually had this problem even when I was a stick-bitch) I would simply wear boxers with a bright pattern, or sew a colorful patch that was intended to be seen. Now that I’m a sad and dumpy Soccer Mom? Not a chance in hell. Recent revivals in that hideous 80’s trend of distressing/purposefully going about making holes in the denim isn’t going to fly either. Thigh holes on fatties don’t scream fashionista. Nay. They scream “Hie thee to Jenny Craig, STAT.”
A little bit of Googling around tells me that people (not just women) with athletic/muscular thighs are prone to blowing out their jeans this way. Sadly, there isn’t really a rescue after the fact. My husband, who has what a salesman at Perry Ellis referred to as “an athletic seat” (my mother calls it Hockey Ass) splits everything right up the seam of the rear. It’s possibly more unattractive, but much easier to repair.
Until it’s warm enough to start schlepping about in a skirt (below the knee, lest my cellulite dimples be mistaken for craters on the Moon) I will continue to wear my holey pants at home. Sadly, I’ll have to trot the less flattering Joe Fresh and Old Navy togs out of their resting place for public excursions.