One month ago, I found myself 5 hours away from my Minneapolis apartment with ripped jeggings.
I was just sitting down to have a nice meal with my family when I felt a bit of a draft. I looked down, fearing the worst. Sure enough there it was, on the inside of my right thigh.
A nice, Grand Canyon-sized hole. #ClassyAF
My Mom reassured me that it wasn’t “that bad” and that it “could be worse” and that she “should have brought the patches she used to iron onto my pants as a kid.”
To be fair, she was right. The rip could have been MUCH worse. However, the rip occurred at approximately 12:15 PM, and the day was still young. Given that my thighs are VERY fond of each other and spend a lot of time rubbing together when I walk, I could only imagine what they’d look like after a day spent trollin’ the Milwaukee streets.
Plus, I was going to be attending the Celtics V. Bucks game, and I didn’t want to end up on the Jumbo-tron’s “Ripped Pants Cam.” (That’s not really a thing, but it probably should be.)
Truth is, I knew I was playing with fire. The warning signs of jeans-about-to-give-way were there. The nice, white, worn horizontal line on the inner thigh of my jeans, and the fact that there was a little too much give and not enough of the support that they’d so lovingly given me when I purchased them a year ago, all pointed to weakened fabric. They were also pretty much the only pair of jeggings I wore for a year– I couldn’t possibly have expected them to last forever, right?
Oh, but I did. That’s why I was in Milwaukee without a back-up pair of pants. #2Glam2GiveADamn
Perhaps the reason I toyed with fate is because most women hate pants shopping, myself included. One, there’s always the fear that I’ve gained weight, and which will then require me to confront my thighs about being better at not retaining each french fry I eat. Two, just because you’re a size at one store, doesn’t mean you’ll be the same size at a different store, which makes your entire life feel like a lie. And third, if you’re short (like me) or tall but a store only has regular sizes/lengths JUST GO HOME because everything is the worst.
Case in point: my first shopping experience at Levi’s in the Mall of America a year ago. If you’ve never purchased a pair of Levi’s jeggings, do it, you won’t regret it. They actually look like real jeans and they’re SUPER comfortable.
But if you don’t know how their sizes work, it’s nightmarish. It wasn’t enough for me to know that I’m a size 10 or 12 depending where I’m shopping and how much pizza I’d consumed the night before. No. They do that thing where you need to know your waist size and length (so like, 30 x 31 or whatever). Which I didn’t. I didn’t even know which number was which. Thankfully, I wasn’t there alone, but my best friend also didn’t know how the sizes worked so we stood there, staring at piles of denim on denim on denuuuuuum.
“Do you need help finding your size?” a store associate asked us. It should be noted that said associate was a very attractive guy who was probably my age. I’m talking straight-up model, yo.
“Yeah, actually,” my friend started before I threw her a look that stopped her.
“We’re fine,” I said, turning red and staring straight ahead at the jeans that may as well have been sized using hieroglyphics.
If you thought that was the only time he tried to help us, you’re wrong. In fact, not only did he approach us MULTIPLE times, but two of his fellow associates (who were ALSO too pretty to be human, meaning they were probably robots) approached us MULTIPLE times because apparently the two of us did a good job looking completely clueless.
Looking back, it really shouldn’t have been a big deal. However, in the moment, there seemed to be nothing more mortifying than telling these model-esque guys that I was not a size 0, but in fact a size 0 with a 1 in front of it. It felt like this secret that I needed to keep to myself, to shield from the world that can, at times, be cruel.
Anyway, that story ended with me finally swallowing my pride and asking for help, which led to me finding the world’s best pair of pants.
Which then ceased to be exactly one year later.
If you’re wondering how this lil’ anecdote ties into having ripped pants in Milwaukee, you’re impatient. But thanks to that pants shopping experience, I was able to order two new pairs of Levi’s jeggings from the INTERNET from the comfort of my hotel room, wearing yoga pants and watching SpongeBob. He’s also ripped his pants a time or two or ten , so I was in good company.
Anyway, here’s to awkward jeans shopping expeditions and ripped pants. And to the yoga pants that I didn’t realize I’d tucked into my overnight bag that saved the day and further thigh exposure. You the real MVP.