Hey, why not? I’m used to these mystery gifts by now. Plenty of times I’ve come home to find mystery bags of meat, vegetables, mason jars of stew, bouquets of flowers, and now…pants. The selection looked promising. There were jeans, both skinny and boot cut, cords, chinos and capris. I was super excited because it’s an indication I might actually have friends out there (score one for the Knadler) and I only have a couple of maternity items for my lower half and the normal size leggings I still try to squeeze into everyday ride lower and lower and lower as my belly expands. Seriously, the 7th month is when the baby starts drinking weight gainer powder, or something; she is growing so much right now I wheeze and groan when I get into bed every night and I swear Jake thinks he’s costarring in his own Craft-Matic adjustable bed infomercial.
So I brought them in, gave them a washing and started wearing them. I was most excited about the skinny jeans. I love skinny jeans. They look so great and make me feel like I’m not actually getting old. But there was a problem. The back pockets were cut really, really small and positioned high on the derriere, making my butt look like a bucket was shoved down the backside of my pants.
Whoever decided small, high back pockets on jeans is a good look needs to be destroyed. It is universally unflattering, regardless of weight or body type. My fatal error is that during dinner I stood up, hiked up my shirt to expose my derriere and asked Jake the question no woman should ever, ever, ever ask another human being, especially a man: “Honey, does my butt look big?”
He put down his fork and actually sighed. “Babe, you don’t want me to answer that.”
Well, why doesn’t he just kick me when I’m down? When I’m already wheezing, gasping and hacking trying to get into my Craft-Matic Adjustable Bed night after night? Did I mention my back really hurts? Because of the baby — our baby — crushing my spine in half? Maybe, just maybe, he could go easy on me considering my special condition. No such luck.
“You know, you could cushion the blow a bit,” I said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe by telling me it’s THE PANTS that are unflattering; specifically the small, high placement of the back pockets.”
“It’s still your butt filling out the jeans, hon.”
“[mouth hanging open, aghast at man's insensitivity].”
And I couldn’t even get mad at him because I walked right into this morass. I asked him the question that should never, ever, ever pass a woman’s lips…especially a hormonal, pregnant woman prone to random outbursts of tears and rage.
Instead, I remained totally calm, casually removed the pants, lit them on fire and threw them in the sink hole. (I lit them on fire and threw them in the sink hole in my mind.)
So whoever brought me all those maternity pants? If you’re reading this, thanks for the sweet gift. But I see now you were also trying to offload some fugly jeans. I don’t blame you. Move those suckers down the line. (I’m already plotting who will be the skinny jeans’ next victim.)