Friday 2 February 2007

Isn't arse flattery the whole point?

Ugh, I had a 6monthly check up at the dentist on Friday and not only did he give me an enormous filling, but he also told me I need to have two of my wisdom teeth taken out and gave me a referral to an oral surgeon. Great, just the news I needed.
I called to make an appointment as soon as I left and cannot believe they can fit me in on Tuesday. Tuesday!!!!! That’s only a few days away. I thought I’d have more time to get used to the idea.
I suppose it’s better to get these things over and done with, but the very thought of having my wisdom teeth out makes me feel sick to my stomach, especially given the horror stories I've heard from friends. Ash had to have a general anesthetic and was in hospital for a week!!! Fifteen years later she still turns green and unusually silent at the memory, not something that puts me at my ease about my own impending extractions. I had to pop into Bloomingdales after my check up and ease the gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach with a bit of retail therapy.

I'm looking for new jeans and had a $50 gift card burning a hole in my pocket, so popped in to see if they had any to suit me. I need new ones pronto; the ones I have are falling to bits and there’s a hole growing dangerously close to my right buttock. I’m worried that if I sit down in a hurry they’ll tear completely and I’ll be left with my arse hanging out in denim hot pants, a sight no-one needs to see. I suppose that’s only to be expected from a pair that was $15 on sale in Urban Outfitters; you get what you pay for.

Decided to see what all the fuss is about with this high priced denim every other woman in New York seems to be have been stromping around in for the past couple of years - I'm fashionably late to this trend. My working class northern roots are shocked at the prices, upwards of $139 a pop plus sales tax for the CHEAPEST pairs, $200plus for some. I’m no cheapskate, I'd spend it on a pair of shoes, but $200 for jeans???? Whatever happened to making do with a $40 pair of Levi’s? I'm so out of touch.
Unfortunately I'm in dire need, so decided that if the $139plus ones really looked that good then I’d splurge since on a cost per wear basis they’d be a relative bargain to some things I have tucked in the back of my wardrobe.

I can’t say I was overly impressed, I took four or five pairs into the changing rooms – awful bright white lighting which made me look like death warmed up, suiting my post dental mood – and gave them a whirl. Lovely and soft, but not a single pair looked good on me. They weren't so bad from the front, but from behind...complete disaster. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m on the short side (5ft 1), or whether it’s just the style, but the pockets sat way down on my arse and ended a couple of inches down my leg, making my bum look as flat as a pancake instead of nicely rounded. Sooooo not flattering. I was very disappointed to be thwarted in my attempts to cheer myself up with retail therapy. Adding insult to injury were a whole gaggle of British female tourists a couple of cubicles down also trying on overpriced jeans, and commenting to each other about how cheap they were and their plans to buy 'at least 3 pairs.' Damn them and their pesky favorable exchange rate.

This weekend I couldn't help but compare other women’s behinds in their designer jeans to see if everyone else looked good in them and it was just my arse making them look bad. They didn’t. Seemingly there is an epidemic of women who feel fine about leaving the house in extortionately priced jeans with pockets extending a good 3 inches below the curve of their bum giving their arses a pancake like appearance. Why would you do that? Isn’t arse flattery the whole point of jeans? They must have money to burn these girls. I ended up stopping off in The Gap on the way home and getting a perfectly nice pair of dark wash denims with pockets that sit nicely on my cheeks for a bargain $40; they're the right length too, so no need to have them hemmed.
Take that overpriced Bloomies denim.

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