Paper towels … check.
Shampoo … check.
Birthday card for brother … check.
Pair of jeans … Here we go.
I put off this part of my Target mission until last. My pear-shaped frame—a term I didn’t know until it was bestowed upon me while shopping for jeans—was particularly hard to fit.
My plan is simple: lowered expectations. If I don’t emerge with a pair of jeans, no big deal, I’ve accomplished my other goals, crossed plenty off my list.
I navigate the forest of too-close racks overstuffed with cheap clothes. Fortune smiles on me; I only knock one thing down before finding the rack of jeans that will cover my bull-in-a-china-shop ass. I find a dark wash in my size and place it gently in my cart, because that’s how I roll. Next, I add a pair of skinny jeans, because I believe in torturing myself.
Maybe I’ve been too judgey about the skinny jean. People can change; so could jeans. Everyone wears them; there must be something good about them.
I sidle up to the lone woman manning the dressing room: a factory for naked women squeezing into mass-produced clothing. I can almost smell the frustration and sweat from the Gatekeeper’s booth. She stands, cuddling a gigantic stack of clothing, over which her lackluster, apathetic eyes spy me. With a sigh, she reaches across her desk and hands me a plastic-colored card that she won’t pay attention to later.
Once inside my dim room, I kick off my shoes, pull off my jeans. After a quick glance at the mirror, I rush to cover my pasty, almost-translucent, thigh-touching legs with the skinny jeans.
I don’t know who these were made for, maybe no one. They take the worst parts of me and magnify them. I look in the mirror with disgust; I’m pretty sure they defy all laws of physics.
I hitch the other pair over my hips and button the waistband. They’re snug, but I can still breathe comfortably. A good sign. I take a good look in the mirror: top to bottom. I squeeze the roll of fat above my belly button. When did that get there?I remember, like a year or two ago, it was almost gone. Suck in your breath. Does it go away? Not even close.
I turn around, contorting my neck like an owl to check out the view from the back. Fuck! Backfat?
I mean, knew it was there all along. I could feel it, but to see it up close like this … Quickly, I move my eyes downward.
Hunh. Look at dat ass.Shapely. Round and juicy. Perky, even. Just to be sure, I turn the other way, ogle it from another angle. Nope; it’s true. I have a damn fine ass.
Oh, I am buying these jeans. And every pair in this store.