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“Do I… like these?”
I asked myself this question in the mirror of a department store dressing room, one I was sharing with my mom at the time. We were jeans shopping, which is honestly one of the most difficult types of shopping there are. I was blessed, or cursed, depending on your viewpoint, with an ass that doesn’t quit, and jeans shopping has a tendency to make me study my thighs in the stupid three-way mirrors and wish I’d gone to the gym a few more times that week. What is it with dressing room lighting, anyway? Is there a special cellulite bulb they plug in there just to make you hate yourself?
“I think they’re cute,” said my mother, who has a tendency to wear her pants a half-size too big and refuses any pair that hugs her ankles too tight. She also works out every day and has a nicer body than me, but that’s neither here nor there.
“They’re too big,” I said doubtfully.
I twisted in the mirror, studying my butt in my first pair of true mom jeans. They were the kind that came up higher on my waist than I was used to, and they weren’t as skintight as all my other jeans. They weren’t boyfriend-style loose, they were just… comfortable. The length was perfect, and since they weren’t skinny jeans there was no straitjacket cutting into my ankles and calves. But they were definitely mom jeans. Somehow they made my butt look good while at the same time making me look like I was about to hop in a minivan and drive a toddler to Arby’s. I stripped them off and tossed them on the floor along with the other 99 pairs that I’d tugged on that morning. A few were pretty cute, but the more I yanked on jeans that were low cut, or super tight, the more I wished I was wearing my mom jeans, the ones that somehow managed to caress my legs in soft denim without being at all constricting. I grabbed them from the pile as we were leaving.
“I’ll just see if they’re on sale,” I said, and they were. I bought the mom jeans, along with a few other pairs that were more along the lines of the jeans I wear normally. The mom jeans made it to my closet, but since its regularly 100 degrees until October where I live, the opportunity to wear them didn’t appear right away. Luckily, I wear jeans to work a lot, since my profession involves more computer work than meeting with clients. Even so, when I pulled on the jeans before work one morning (good God, the comfort) I was unsure. Did my ass look awesome? Somehow, yes, it really did. But the general style was still very much soccer-mom-from-the-burbs. I debated pulling on another pair, but I was bloated and let’s face it, hungover, and all I wanted was to keep these soft pleasure pants on. I didn’t want to squeeze into one of my tighter pairs, and I was running low on options since I hadn’t done laundry since spring.
I wore the mom jeans to work.
As I walked in, I worried that one of my smartass colleagues would say something over Skype chat about my mom-butt, but no one seemed fazed. As the day went on and I enjoyed the feel of soft denim covering my thighs in a way that didn’t make them gasp for air, I started to actually feel sexy. Nothing was tugging or pulling or giving me weird lumps. Nothing was tight on my hips or restricting at all, and my ass still looked awesome. My mom jeans were literally making me feel super hot. I got home that night feeling like the sexiest woman alive.
I’m not sure whether this is a power move, or just the depressing shift of my mindset into its adult ways, but whatever it is, I’m into it. If feeling like a lowkey porn star in mom jeans is wrong, then I definitely don’t want to be right. .