….you know you wanna get with me, but I’m just here to dance!
While I am here to dance, I am also here to look good in my jeans.
Here’s the thing: a lot of the more delusional amongst us feel that it makes more sense to stuff our asses into jeans that are too tight rather than admit that we need a bigger size. My experience in bridal taught me just how insanely attached girls become to a number that is spectacularly arbitrary. Depending on the store/week/moon cycle/Venus being in the 12th house I can wear a: 6, 8, 4, 10, 28, 29, 46 or the ever baffling “small” or “medium”. I have mostly had my attachment to a specific size beaten out of me through a combination of horror and shame (the horror from watching girls who need a six insist they wear a two in a tone that suggested you’d murdered their puppy, and the shame from A hurling abuse at me if I attempted to leave a dressing room with a pair of pants that were too small). It still occasionally flares up when shopping for jeans or when I realized that a pencil skirt I really liked was a ten. That said, if I actually buy something, I man up enough to get it in the right size, not the aspirational (which IS a word, fuck you, you judgmental squiggly red-lined bastard) and frankly delusional, “Oh, I’m going to BE this size.” If I become that size, I get to buy new pants. I’m not totally sure that is a reward, since jean shopping is quite possibly one of the worst first-world experiences for a girl.
That being said, while jean shopping is difficult, it is IMPERATIVE that it is done right. Otherwise this happens:
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