You really should buy jeans in the right goddam size, because I’m sick of looking at you.
Sick of you sitting there, re-adjusting, unable to find a comfortable position. One where the waist doesn’t cut into your gut. Or the crotch doesn’t ride up too far. Or the gap in the back doesn’t disclose your underwear.
Sick of you sitting there, blaming your body for having too many curves. Or all the wrong ones. Or that some part of you has to go, so the jeans can stay.
Your jeans are visitors; your body is Home.
If the jeans don’t fit, don’t fucking buy them. Don’t promise that, after the holidays, they’ll fit. After you lose ten pounds. With the right shirt. Don’t you dare do that to yourself.
Forget what the tag on that one pair in the back of your closet from five years ago says. Or what the ones your wearing now say. Or the difference between the two.
Do your jeans make you feel immortal?
Then they fit. And you should buy them—preferably in multiple colors, always multiple pairs.
Mary's One Hundred 