When Did Buying Jeans Become So Complicated?

It started at my birthday dinner. Upscale restaurant, the kind with cloth napkins. I stood in front of my closet that afternoon and had nothing to wear. Not “nothing” the way you say it when you have too many choices. Nothing. Every woman at that dinner looked like she’d walked out of a magazine. I walked in wearing baggy black pants and a long top.

Then came my friend Mia’s high school graduation party. I saw the photos afterward. Frumpy doesn’t begin to cover it.

It was time to upgrade my wardrobe. I literally had nothing that fit.

As most of you know, I’ve lost 215 pounds over the years. A size twenty-eight was once tight. If I wore white jeans, my butt could have been mistaken for a movie screen.

This past year, I dropped another forty-five pounds without trying, thanks to a medication that finally calmed my brain down about food. Not the GLP-1 shot. Don’t ask. For the first time in my life, my brain went quiet on the subject. I’ve reached the point where people tell me I don’t need to lose any more weight.

I called Mia. She had one month before leaving for college in Arkansas, so I asked her to help me clear out the closet. There’s a fifty-year gap between us. She has fashion sense and organizational skills I admire.

There was one dress with palm trees I thought would be a keeper.

Mia asked, “Are you going to the beach soon?”

She is brutally honest.

I handed it over to the giveaway pile.

My clothes found new homes with my favorite homeless ministry, several friends, and a friend’s family in Mexico. I don’t feel guilty about the money I’d spent on clothes. I loved seeing them have a second life.

After Mia left, I went shopping. I never pay retail, so I started with the sale racks. My stores used to be J.Jill, Talbots, and Chico’s. Since retiring, I’ve drifted toward Lands’ End and Walmart, which tells you something. My wardrobe had become leggings and sweatshirts.

I found a couple of nice outfits to wear out to dinner.

I needed jeans. The six pairs I owned didn’t fit. I had no idea finding one pair of jeans would become a week-long task. I needed one pair for a trip.

Have you shopped for jeans lately? Every store had jeans. Just not jeans. They had barrel jeans, boyfriend jeans, wide-leg jeans, distressed jeans, and jeans that looked like they’d already had a full social life before I met them. The hems were frayed on purpose. The knees were ripped on purpose. If I want holes in my jeans, I’ll make my own, free of charge, the next time I fall in a random parking lot.

For forty years, I dreamed about losing enough weight to walk into a store and buy smaller clothes. Nobody mentioned that by the time I got there, nobody would be making ordinary jeans anymore.

All I wanted was one pair of blue jeans.

Petite length. Medium wash. No holes. No unusual architecture.

By the time I reached Talbots, I was hopeful. Surely the people who sold me Classic for years still sold Classic.

Nope.

Apparently, even Classic jeans aren’t  classic anymore.

To every clothing company in America, I have one request. Please hire one buyer over the age of thirty. Just one. You cannot design pants for a body you’ve never lived in.

So here I sit in Wisconsin with no jeans. I tried Target in Eau Claire last night. The photo tells you everything you need to know.

Tomorrow, I’ll go to class in black leggings and shorts. Who knew that at this point in life finding a pair of jeans would be such a challenge? If you happen to find some, pick me up the following:

Length twenty-six.

Size 10 petite.

Medium wash.

No frayed hems or missing knees.

Plain old classic blue jeans.