I stand in front of the closet, with a hand on one hip. Behind me lie all of the pants that, five minutes earlier, sat in the closet. The shorts, the first victims, are crumpled underneath the heavier cold-weather corduroys. On the top lie many versions of my classic staple: the blue jean. Straight-leg, boot-cut, acid-washed, different sizes. After trying them all on, I am pondering the eternal problem: closet full of jeans, nothing to make my butt look good.
For the past couple weeks I have had some serious body frustration going on, and my pants are the problem. Having misplaced my stretchy under-skirt shorts, I can't comfortably wear my skirts and dresses, so I was left with pants which, you got it, just aren't fitting the way I wanted to. There is something truly shitty about starting your day hating the way your butt looks.
Until today -- success! My fancy, on-sale designer jeans I bought in Halifax returned from their disappearance just in time to boost my self-esteem. So I stood in front of the closet, pulled on the prodigal jeans and checked my ass in the mirror.
It's going to be a good day.