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  • Writer's pictureJafei Pollitt

I Still Have Hope for the Jeans That Don’t Fit Me.

Many women buy jeans throughout their life knowing they will simply grow out of them. Many women are sensible and decide to donate these pants to the local thrift store. Many women are smart and level-headed. I am not these many women.

No, in fact, my closet and drawers are filled to the brim with uncomfortable, high-waisted jeans that squeeze my organs into failure. Did you know, I used to fit into size 0’s! Of course, this was when I was age 12, but the hope still remains that my body may once again revert it’s aging process and bring me back down to the 4’5″, 90-pound child I once was.

So, the jeans I found at the Children’s Place store still remain amongst the older, wider pants I’ve had to succumb to buying because my body “grows” and “develops” and “matures.” And somewhere in my brain, in the very, very back, I believe that once college ends and the freshman 15 – that has now turned into the Sophmore 30- will shed off me as easily as an orange peel and I will once again slide like butter into the chaps I’ve held onto for 10+ years.

Somewhere in my brain, it is feasible to me that I am still a growing toddler.

I am a 20-year-old woman who has not gained an inch in nearly 3 years, but yet the dream lives on that I’ll be 6’0″ like my sister and 90 pounds like Carrie Fischer in Star Wars. I still hope that the irreversible damage from picking at my zits when I was 15 will clear up like some sort of magic and the small formations of wrinkles already occurring will cease their existence and understand that I am special and not like other normal, aging adults.

Denial, you say? Why, I don’t even know that term. No, I like to use the phrase “forcing my body to do what I want it to.” It’s the same principle used in the hit T.V show America’s Funniest Home Videos; while the participant’s viewers know that they can’t succeed in jumping from the roof into the pool, they themselves think their body and mind are on the same page…right up until they hit the paved edge of the pool with their ankle and keel over into the water.

When I am in my late 40’s with possible children and sagging boobs, I will still insist that my husband keep the Bobby Jack Brand, size 6 Children’s pants in the back of our wardrobe because maybe, just maybe, I might be able to get myself into them when I’m 80, shrunken, and can’t keep food down.

Nothing would look better to me than my decrepit old-self walking through the park in out-dated children’s clothing that will both inspire the hipsters and scare new, young mothers.

To all those “composed,” “rational,” and “realistic” people out there who say I need to “accept myself” and ” understand it’s impossible for any kind of ‘Benjamin Button’ disease to befall me,” I say (in an old, granny voice) To Hell With You ALL!

Those size 0’s and size -0’s and size —0’s pants will forever remain! I will not let my dreams die so easily nor will I give up the idea that I will once again be able to wear such suffocating, fashionless trousers once more without having to take a pause every two minutes just to catch my breath.

My jeans will be an heirloom to my future grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren and whoever possesses the ability to slither their way into them when they are well over the years of growing, will possess my full powers.

Good luck kids, I doubt any of you have the true will to devote your life to fit in impossible clothing like your grandma did.

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