You know how people, before saying something completely inappropriate, rude, offensive, etc., will preface it with, "I don't mean to sound 'xxxx', but . . . ." And then they inevitably follow that with something that sounds exactly like they said they didn't mean to sound? Yeah, not gonna happen here. I have some things to say, and frankly, they may offend you. They may sound rude. They may be un-PC. Screw it. I'm sick of tiptoeing around honesty because someone might not like what I'm about to say. If the right to free speech extends to religious extremists who want to protest outside military funerals because they hate homosexuals, then it certainly extends me the right to say the following:
Skinny jeans are taking over. I resisted. Oh, for a long time, did I resist the fad. And you know what broke me? It's not the jeans. It was the cute boots that you really have to wear skinny jeans with. Straight leg, boot cut, and flare jeans just don't tuck into those cute little booties the right way. I bought a pair of booties. And I want a pair of slouchy black knee-high boots that we sell at the 'mart. In order to wear those to their fashionista best, I needed skinny jeans. So I bought a cheap pair. And then my husband shrunk them in the wash (yet another reason I am in favor of traditional gender roles in my house--but that's a blog for another day). So now my skinny jeans are impossible-to-wear jeans.
Being a newcomer to this fad, I'm late catching up. I was resistant to skinny jeans, period. And then I break down and buy a pair, and it isn't as simple as I think it's going to be. I just wanted dark wash skinny jeans. But I had to jungle my way through stretch skinny jeans, regular jean skinny jeans, and then this strange thing dubbed a "jegging," which we will not even get in to. But I digress. Then, once I own these fad-ulous pants, I start noticing them everywhere. And it leads me to develop these:
Guidelines for Skinny Jeans
To the skinny jean maker:
Skinny jeans do not, in fact, make you skinnier. They do, however, look good on many body types. Because of this, I would ask that jeans manufacturers remember that all ladies, from a size 5 to a size 15 want to be fad-ulous. And that we aren't all built with the same proportions. For example:
Just because I can wear a size 5 jean does not mean that I want my calves to suffocate in your too-skinny-pants. Give my calves some wiggle room, please. (This also applies to cute-boot manufacturers. I wear a size 7. But my calves apparently need an 8 or a 9.)
Also, I'm short. Is it too much to ask that I don't have to roll the bottoms of my jeans (thus making it difficult to squeeze into my cute booties--the whole point of my purchasing skinny jeans) in order to not look like my ankles are totally bloated?
Let's talk about proportions. We have a line of jeans at the 'mart called "curvy fit," and they are designed for people like me. See, I have this problem that a lot of women I know have. My body is not perfectly proportioned. I have a butt, and compared to the size of my waist, my butt is big. I'm okay with this. I like having a little bit of curve. And these "curvy fit" jeans would be perfect--if they made a skinny pair. But they're all flare or bootcut. I need skinny jeans that love my ass as much as me. Cuz usually, I have to go up a size to accommodate my derriere, and then I'm left with a huge gap at the waist, which I will cinch with a belt, and THEN I'm left with gathered waistband jeans. See my problem?
I could go on, but I will refrain. Moving on
To the skinny-jean wearer:
Wear those jeans proudly at any size.
However, see that last note to the jean manufacturers about proportions? Yeah, this applies to you as well. I know it's a pain, but until things change, you may just have to buy a size bigger than you normally wear to look right in those jeans. Size is not a constant. I could go into 5 stores, try on 5 different brands of pants, and come out with 5 different sizes. Wear what looks GOOD, and screw the world that tells you that unless the label inside your pants says "3" or below, you're too fat. No one, including you, wants to see you muffin-topping over your skinny jeans because you wanted to buy a smaller size that what you needed to buy. You'd look a hellavu lot better if you just bought a bigger size. After all, when you have them on, I can't see what size they are anyway. I only see if they look right on you.
Finally, say no to crack. Buy a higher waist, wear a longer shirt. It's getting cold anyway, exposed skin is dangerous. And your exposed ass-crack in my store is incredibly dangerous. For both of us.
Oh, and on a side note, remember in the 90's and early 00's when everyone, everywhere was disdaining the "tapered" jean, and we all jumped on the "flare" and "wide-leg" wagon because tapered jeans were for women who just couldn't let the mullet die? What the hell do you think skinny jeans are, anyway?
Friday, October 15, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Almost famous
So one of my (KMart-rant-free) posts has been picked up by a nifty website called Blogher. It's being run on the homepage--so cool--so you should go check it out. And check out some of their other stuff too. It's a pretty interesting site.
I'm almost famous! :D
Clicky, clicky:
Blogher
Monday, October 4, 2010
a question of mortality
I am being quite remiss in my posting these days. The only thing I can think of is that not as much is happening at work because, unfortunately, I've gotten used to the abnormalities of the general public. I did get a prank call a couple of weeks ago, but it's not exactly easily translated into writing. There are important sound effects involved, as well as some necessary dramatic pauses. I guess you'll just have to call me if you're that curious.
I've decided that since I'm fresh out of crazy KMart stories, I might as well write about other things in my life. After all, this is supposed to chronicle my struggles and triumphs as a working not-so-professional, not only my retail experiences.
Today is my class day. I teach a night class at the local community college, and because of that, it is one of my days off from KMart. Usually, I'm pretty darn lazy on Mondays. I have no good reason either, I just am. Today was no exception. Except that instead of reading Harry Potter and Twiligh fanfiction all day, I played with my dog, read a book, and watched "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I also spent some time simply sitting in my living room, on my comfy couch, with the dog stretched out in the sunlight that was spilling across the floor. I had a cup of tea, and simply sat there. It was calming. And then a bit depressing when I looked over toward one side of the room and saw the peace lily that I brought home from my grandfather's funeral. In front of it on the table, propped up, was the leaflet from his funeral and the only sympathy card I received (from my husband's mother).
This was the first major death I've ever experienced. I've had family members die, but none that I truly remembered. Most were great-great aunts or uncles. People whom my parents grieved, and I was sad for them, but not for my own loss.
I remember very clearly the morning I got the phone call. It was the summer, so my husband was 3.5 hours away at his summer job. It was the end of July, the days were hot and muggy, even at 6:00 in the morning. I often sleep with my phone next to the bed, and almost always during the summer. In case something tragic happens, or if my husband has a work-related accident. Very rarely do I get phone calls overnight.
I had to be at work at the 'mart that day. At 10:00 AM. I didn't set the alarm because my dog is good to get me up between 8:00 and 8:30 every day. I was jarred awake at just after 6:00 by my phone. I picked it up to squint at the screen. "Mom" it said, displaying her cell phone number. A feeling of panic settled in to my stomach. Was it Dad? One of my brothers? She's been known to call me early in the morning, but never that early. So I answered. All I could hear was her choking sobs. She managed to apologize for waking me, and tell me that my grandfather had passed away during the night. I couldn't say any more than, "Mom . . ." before she cut me off, telling me she had to call everyone else. Looking back, I should have offered to do it for her. But if she's anything like me (and we are very similar), she wanted to do the calling. It gave her a way to channel her grief. A mission, something to do so she could momentarily suspend the inevitable moment when she would have to face that her father had died.
I listened to the line cut off, dropping the phone to the floor. The second that suspended it in the air before it thunked on the blanket below is etched into my emotional memory. The silent house, the glimmer of morning peaking through the curtains, my dog watching me intently from the foot of the bed, my inability to take or expel breath. And in that split second, I moved from stunned silence into sobs that wracked my entire body.
I cried myself hoarse over the next two hours. I tried to call my husband every couple of minutes. I found out later his phone was dead. Between the 4 or 5 voicemails I left and the same number of text messages, he was probably panicking by the time he woke up and called me back.
For the 4 hours between that phone call and when I had to be at work, I fought with myself. I wanted to stay home, because I would break down into tears and dry heaves at a moment's notice, but I wanted to go to work because I didn't think I could stand to sit in my house, alone, and have nothing but the knowledge of his death rolling through my brain.
Since his funeral, I have found myself experiencing strange sets of emotions. As I said, this was the first time I've had to truly confront death, and my own ideas of mortality. I've learned about the grieving process in school, and the biggest thing that has always been stressed is that everyone grieves differently. But some days, I can't help but feel like I'm doing it wrong. There was never, ever a moment of anger or denial. Never any guilt or bargaining. Though I've cried, there was never a time, since I answered that phone, where I didn't accept that it had happened, and knew it was right.
It's been two months, and I keep waiting for it to happen. I broke down and cried a few days ago, staring at the damn lily. I cry mostly because I miss him. His jokes, his smile, the smell of his house, his stubbornness, his sailor's mouth. Him teaching me to drive a boat, to water ski, letting me drive his '58 Chevy. Picking raspberries with me, telling me to stay away from boys, leaving in the middle of Mass.
I think about him often. Everyday, probably. I'm scared to let that lily die. I worry that I haven't let myself grieve, even though it doesn't feel that way. I worry that because I didn't cry more, it means I cared less.
I question if our belief in an afterlife, in something beyond death, is real, or if it's only an idea. A cold comfort after a loss. That it's not for the dead, but for the living, who are left to remember the dead.
I've decided that since I'm fresh out of crazy KMart stories, I might as well write about other things in my life. After all, this is supposed to chronicle my struggles and triumphs as a working not-so-professional, not only my retail experiences.
Today is my class day. I teach a night class at the local community college, and because of that, it is one of my days off from KMart. Usually, I'm pretty darn lazy on Mondays. I have no good reason either, I just am. Today was no exception. Except that instead of reading Harry Potter and Twiligh fanfiction all day, I played with my dog, read a book, and watched "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I also spent some time simply sitting in my living room, on my comfy couch, with the dog stretched out in the sunlight that was spilling across the floor. I had a cup of tea, and simply sat there. It was calming. And then a bit depressing when I looked over toward one side of the room and saw the peace lily that I brought home from my grandfather's funeral. In front of it on the table, propped up, was the leaflet from his funeral and the only sympathy card I received (from my husband's mother).
This was the first major death I've ever experienced. I've had family members die, but none that I truly remembered. Most were great-great aunts or uncles. People whom my parents grieved, and I was sad for them, but not for my own loss.
I remember very clearly the morning I got the phone call. It was the summer, so my husband was 3.5 hours away at his summer job. It was the end of July, the days were hot and muggy, even at 6:00 in the morning. I often sleep with my phone next to the bed, and almost always during the summer. In case something tragic happens, or if my husband has a work-related accident. Very rarely do I get phone calls overnight.
I had to be at work at the 'mart that day. At 10:00 AM. I didn't set the alarm because my dog is good to get me up between 8:00 and 8:30 every day. I was jarred awake at just after 6:00 by my phone. I picked it up to squint at the screen. "Mom" it said, displaying her cell phone number. A feeling of panic settled in to my stomach. Was it Dad? One of my brothers? She's been known to call me early in the morning, but never that early. So I answered. All I could hear was her choking sobs. She managed to apologize for waking me, and tell me that my grandfather had passed away during the night. I couldn't say any more than, "Mom . . ." before she cut me off, telling me she had to call everyone else. Looking back, I should have offered to do it for her. But if she's anything like me (and we are very similar), she wanted to do the calling. It gave her a way to channel her grief. A mission, something to do so she could momentarily suspend the inevitable moment when she would have to face that her father had died.
I listened to the line cut off, dropping the phone to the floor. The second that suspended it in the air before it thunked on the blanket below is etched into my emotional memory. The silent house, the glimmer of morning peaking through the curtains, my dog watching me intently from the foot of the bed, my inability to take or expel breath. And in that split second, I moved from stunned silence into sobs that wracked my entire body.
I cried myself hoarse over the next two hours. I tried to call my husband every couple of minutes. I found out later his phone was dead. Between the 4 or 5 voicemails I left and the same number of text messages, he was probably panicking by the time he woke up and called me back.
For the 4 hours between that phone call and when I had to be at work, I fought with myself. I wanted to stay home, because I would break down into tears and dry heaves at a moment's notice, but I wanted to go to work because I didn't think I could stand to sit in my house, alone, and have nothing but the knowledge of his death rolling through my brain.
Since his funeral, I have found myself experiencing strange sets of emotions. As I said, this was the first time I've had to truly confront death, and my own ideas of mortality. I've learned about the grieving process in school, and the biggest thing that has always been stressed is that everyone grieves differently. But some days, I can't help but feel like I'm doing it wrong. There was never, ever a moment of anger or denial. Never any guilt or bargaining. Though I've cried, there was never a time, since I answered that phone, where I didn't accept that it had happened, and knew it was right.
It's been two months, and I keep waiting for it to happen. I broke down and cried a few days ago, staring at the damn lily. I cry mostly because I miss him. His jokes, his smile, the smell of his house, his stubbornness, his sailor's mouth. Him teaching me to drive a boat, to water ski, letting me drive his '58 Chevy. Picking raspberries with me, telling me to stay away from boys, leaving in the middle of Mass.
I think about him often. Everyday, probably. I'm scared to let that lily die. I worry that I haven't let myself grieve, even though it doesn't feel that way. I worry that because I didn't cry more, it means I cared less.
I question if our belief in an afterlife, in something beyond death, is real, or if it's only an idea. A cold comfort after a loss. That it's not for the dead, but for the living, who are left to remember the dead.
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