As a lover of fall- I am so happy with the recent trend of long (read: covering the hiney) cardigans, tunics, and baggy sweaters, paired with leggings or skinny jeans and boots. (English teacher friends: I am almost sure I just committed several punctuation crimes. Forgive me.)
From time to time I enjoy shopping and cruising pinterest for what the young folks are wearing, even though I am usually wearing a mom-i-form that is closer to yoga pants and t-shirts from high school. I am not super stylish, but I think I have occasional cute days with my limited resources and budget.
It is late August and I am due to have my last ever baby in December. Here in Oklahoma the only thing certain about our weather is its unpredictability. But I am hopeful that it will eventually cool off enough for me to want to wear my fall staple of skinny jeans and boots. So I purchased a pair of dark indigo maternity skinny jeans and black leggings online.
I was so excited to try them both on when they came in yesterday. I tried on the super soft, full panel, black leggings first and instantly declared them my new favorite pants. Soft, comfy, perfect with long tees and a jacket. Good to dress up for and evening out, or to kick around the house in. In short, I was in love. Pregnancy perfection. Naturally I was excited to proceed to my skinny jeans which were sure to be a hit.
Note: I own several other pairs of jeans, pants, and skinny jeans that are the same brand and size. They fit just fine. No problem.
I put on the jeans and attempted to pull them up. Attempted. They got stuck on my pregnant ham-hock thighs. Allegedly they were stretchy, but I found them not to budge at all. The top of the pants stopped somewhere around my hiney crack. They were so freakishly tight. So I made the choice to do whatever any self respecting woman would do. I pulled up the navy, stretchy, belly covering material and went to the kitchen to show my husband.
This is mean, but sometimes it is fun to wear something that you know is heinous to watch the man you love writhe uncomfortably as he tries not to say anything stupid. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Honey, do you like my new jeans?
Ryland: (Eyes huge, fear covering his face.) Those are cute.
Me: Are you serious? These are so tight that I look like someone who belongs in a "people of Wal-Mart" picture. I'm returning them.
Ryland: Ok. Thank goodness!
Y'all, they were an abomination. Skin tight with a major muffin top. Bad. Blech. Vom. Whatever you are imagining, it was worse.
Then I danced in them. It was a twerking/booty dance hybrid, except pregnant, and not sexy. My people laughed and then I crisco'd myself down enough to peel off the jeans so that I could breathe deeply again. Sweet freedom.
I will be returning them post-haste.
I told my sweet husband that I was planning to blog about this unfortunate experience, to which he timidly replied, "I don't really know how to say this, but, you aren't going to post a picture are you?".
"I'm too vain for that." I said. He exhaled, clearly relieved. And I threatened to punch him if he ever spoke of "the jeans" ever again.
Why couldn't I have been pregnant when gaucho pants were in style? Stretchy, loose, glorious, perfect for achieving a non-muffin-top style. Please ladies, for the love of future preggos everywhere, let's bring back the gauchos.
Maternity Skinny Jeans. Oxymoron.
