There will come a time when they will stop making skinny jeans because they will read as the cause of death on somebody’s file. That somebody will, with all probability, be some unsuspecting girl in a popular retail store’s fitting rom. How do I know this? I was almost such a girl.
The issue of the hazardous nature of the skinny jean was brought to my attention after a shopping trip with my mother. I went into the fitting room. Grunted in there for what felt like half a day. Felt water down my face and made a mental note to inform the nice lady at the door that there was a leak in their roof. Came out of the room looking very satisfied with myself (I had won the battle) only to be greeted by my mother’s frown.
According to her, I looked like something out of a Tim Burton movie. Sweat tracked its way down my face (which, it turns out, was the “leak in the roof”) and my hair, each dreadlock pointing towards its own direction, could have given Ursula a run for her money. My mother, as she never fails to remind me, thought I was having a heart attack or something of that nature.
You see, I have nothing against skinny jeans. I love them actually. They hold you tighter than any of your childhood teddy bears did. They, believe it or not, leave you more room to breathe than most bras do. They can be both casual and semi-formal if worn with the right shoes and accessories. In fact, I will go as far as to say that they are to the 21st century young adult what those hideous Green Cross shoes are to the aged.
With that said, the things are a mission to put on. This is especially true if you have hips that stick out to greet your waist and a butt that is so far from the rest of your body that it is, quite literally, your own personal bodyguard. Now I am not saying that this picture I paint is of me. It is not. My butt leaves much to be desired. Hips I have. And it is these hips that send me into would-be panic attacks every time I have to try on a pair of new jeans.
Most girls will know what I am talking about. Because the skinny jean is meant to hold you tight, a size 30 might as well be a size 26. So the routine, when trying them on, is something that even the people at Cartoon Network couldn’t come up with.
Firstly, you bring about three pairs of the same jeans into the room with you. Different sizes, of course. It is what I like to call a safety measure. Secondly, you pray your hardest that the stall at the very end of the row of close knit rooms is free (you would rather be the only one to hear your panting and inevitable sighs of distress). Finally, you take a deep breath and put you first leg through the death trap elegantly disguised as a fashion statement.
This all sounds a tad dramatic. I understand. But I need you to understand that it is anything but. What follows that first leg is a progressively aggressive series of kicks, jumps and pulls. It is a wonder the material doesn’t rip after the first three minutes (yes, it sometimes takes longer that a minute to put them on). It is an even greater wonder you do not fall short of breath and corpse in the middle of the previously mentioned popular retail store.
The truth is that I very well could have been having a heart attack on that shopping trip with my mother and her frown. For all I know, I passed out for a few seconds and came back to kicking my way into style. I am almost certain that I had to stop to take a few breaths during my private performance...
The skinny jean almost killed me. I am sure of it. But be that as it may, I will not stop wearing it. Even if it means that I stop at the door of cardiac arrest every time I put my pants on.
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