Raise your hand if you’ve ever cried in front of a floor-length dressing room mirror after trying on your twelfth pair of jeans that didn’t fit.
I’m going to assume everyone raised their hand.
I fucking love jeans. The best part about freelancing full-fucking-time is that I wear jeans, all the fucking time.*
But I fucking hate shopping for jeans.
I always end up panting, sweaty, and discouraged with blue-tinted hands.
I stare in the mirror, on the verge of tears, wishing that my thighs were just a little thinner. Or that my hips were just a little more narrow. Anything to make the jeans fit, so I can get out of here and cry in the car like the independent, emotional bitch I am.
In these moments, I recite that chant I was taught when I was old enough to know that I could hate my body:
There’s nothing wrong with me; it’s the clothing company’s fault.
And while, yes, it’s infuriating that two pairs of the same size, brand, and style jean don’t fit because of the color—it’s not the source of my self-deprecation.
Maybe some of my shitty self-image is on me.
Maybe I get too caught up in how much I weigh, or what number is on the inside tag. Maybe the clothing company is partly responsible–but maybe they’re not the only ones.
I don’t feel this way when I try a new food that I don’t like. I don’t feel this way when I watch a new movie and hate the ending. And I sure as shit don’t feel this way when a style of shoe doesn’t fit quite right, or a scarf doesn’t match my complexion.
Maybe, just fucking maybe, I’m the enemy, looking for validation in mass-produced, sewn-together tubes of denim. Maybe, just fucking maybe, if I’m the enemy, I can learn to be the ally:
This brand is not for me. On to the next.
*Yes, even with clients. Because I look more professional in my tailored blue jeans than you do in your ill-fitted wrinkled dress pants.
Mary's One Hundred 