Ok. So, all of my pairs of jeans are slowly getting bigger, around the waist hips and thighs. So I said to my mom, it would be nice to go to the Gap or something and get a really good pair of jeans that don’t look like I’m walking around in a light blue minivan. She says ok, and off we go. Meanwhile, on the drive there, she’s chatting away about her weight loss, and how she’s almost in a size 10, and how excited she is, and how she can’t wait to finally be skinny, etc. etc, blah blah blah. When we get to Gap, she jumps out of the car and grabs my hand and runs inside to the jeans section. I could tell that she had 1. too many cups of coffee that morning, and 2. not enough sleep the night before. While she giggles and pulls jeans from every cubby on the wall and every rack on the floor, I just stood there and held my arms out, seeing as there was no way to escape until she was satisfied with the perfect jeans for me – and for her as well. So she shoos me off to the dressing room and goes into one as well, grinning to herself the whole time.

I think I went through 20 pairs of jeans; my mom went through 3. The poor saleslady even came over and hauled jeans back and forth for me. I tried on 10 different styles, 3 different colors, 4 different lengths, 5 different shapes, and 3 DIFFERENT SIZES. While a pair of 8’s fit fine everywhere but the powerhouse, the 10’s were too small, and a pair of 12’s made me look like a troll doll. What did I leave with? A pair of 12’s that were a fraction of an inch too short. What did my mom leave with? A size 10.

Grr.

I am never going jeans shopping with my mother ever again.