Holey Jeans, Batman!

I just got home from jeans shopping.
My two oldest boys convinced me to go.

Their convincing arguments included, "All my jeans have holes and are falling apart" and "Your jeans are getting old and full of holes too" and "You said we would go and that was weeks ago."

I considered various retaliations like "Jeans with holes are cool now" and "A few holes won't kill ya" and "Why don't we go another day?"

One son arched an eyebrow.
I attempted humour, "Holey jeans, Batman!"
No go.
Distraction:  "Hey, is that a new hockey card I see before me?"
Nope.
If even hockey cards were not distracting these boys,  it was time.
Time to give in.
To relent.
To see the holes that were standing before me and recognize them for what they were.
Holes.
Space where clothing was meant to be.

It was time to hit the store.
Not literally, of course; I don't condone that sort of violence.
Figurative hitting.  More commonly referred to as shopping.

We pulled into the Talize parking lot.  I love this place, I tell ya.  It's a one-stop-shopping place just jam-packed with jazz-a-ma-razz and all at a discount price!  Can you say "SWEET!?"
Think "Value Village".
Then stop thinking about Value Village and think about Talize instead.
Good job!

We enter the store.  We grab shopping carts.  We scope out the store and strategize our shopping experience.  We part ways and begin.

Within 7.2 seconds, Liam has three pairs of jeans, two hockey t-shirts and a Garfield comic book loaded up in his cart.  Donovan has added two pairs of jeans, one weird-looking pair of sweatpants and a cap.
I have lifted my foot to take a first step.
This is already an excruciating excursion and I am not sure it has even begun!

After a painful painstaking hour, I have loaded fifteen pairs of jeans into my cart.  I am feeling good about this shopping thing and I head to the change-room.

Liam and Donovan have already tried on everything and are restlessly pacing the store.
I glance at them nervously and pray that they don't begin racing the carts, ramming each other with said carts or wrestling in the aisles.  These are common-place shopping experiences in my family.
I'm sure your shopping trips are much more placid, organized, and calm.
Good for you!
I am happy for you.
Also a tinge jealous and feeling that maybe you could come over and coach me on all things shopping-efficiently-with-children.

Back to the change room.  I peel off the seventeen layers of clothing intended to ward off the winter weather that crept back in after several days of sly spring.  Then I begin the arduous task of trying on clothes.
Do you feel my pain here, people?
Okay, let me rephrase that.
Do you feel my pain here, ladies?
You know what I'm talking about.
Change-room challenges.
Wardrobe wars.
The moment where one attempts to stuff one's body - repositioned from birthing human beings, rearranged with age and the gravitational pull that increases exponentially with age,  reorganized with surgeries - into the constricting confines of clothing.

Here goes:

First pair of jeans: skin-tight through thighs and calves.  Oddly loose around waist.  Too short.
Second pair of jeans:  Cannot pull up past knees.
Third pair of jeans:  Low-riders.  Oh goody.  Nothing like clothing that accentuates the bubbly parts that I was trying to tuck in.
Fourth pair of jeans:  Too big and slouchy.
Fifth pair:  Flare jeans.  A little too bell-bottomy for my liking.
Sixth pair:  I.can.just.button.these.jeans. but.can.not.breathe.

Sigh.  I peel off the jeans that fit like a layer of blue skin.
I'm hot and sweaty.

I'm annoyed.
Flushed and flustered.
Glaring at myself in the mirror and making all sorts of false promises to my reflection.
Taking down the seventh pair of jeans and telling myself to lower my standards.
"If these fit," I growl to myself, "you're getting them."
They don't fit.
I crumple them and throw them into a dusty corner of the change room.  Take that you, jeans, you!
I grit my teeth.  I feel an eye tic coming on.
I reach for another pair.

Eighth pair:  Too long.
Ninth pair: Too acid-washed.
Tenth pair:  Too jegging.

This goes on for pairs eleven through fifteen.  Nope.  Nope and nope.
I conclude that my body is obviously too unique for all these common-place pants.
I slide back into my comfortable, holey jeans and walk right on outta that change-room.

I buy boots instead.