The Four Stages of JeansPosted: February 18, 2011
There are “Four Stages of Jeans” in the older, more cliched, woman’s life.
Right now I can only fit into my Stage 4 jeans but I’d like to get back into my Stage 1’s. Tell a lie. I’d be happy with Stage 2’s.
Stage 4 is mum jeans. High-waisted, zip-up, boot-leg, post-recent-caesarian, wrong shade of blue, cheap-label, sad, supermarket jeans. Sorry mums but actually, more sorry me. I haven’t had kids, I just look like I have. That’s wrong on many levels.
Stage 3 jeans are slightly darker in hue, still a little high-waisted, but are the ones you can wear with the ubiquitous black top from H&M/Urban Outfitters/that other shop with the Voluspa candles, without feel looking like you’re trying to hard. (Top tip: Hide muffin top with boxy jacket or slouchy over-sized bag, and stand at an angle to the wall all night.)
Unfortunately, Stage 3’s still show your lush thunder thighs, revealing your utter lack of motivation to get out bed in the morning due to either depression, booze, or the inability to make a coherent decision (as you subscribe your lonely spinster state to the fact that you have a complete lack of judgement, and therefore can’t even be trusted to lift your head off the pillow seven times a week.)
Stage 2 is where the action is. Stage 2 is “I did Weight-Watchers for 98 months, snacked on those shitty diet bars, dined off a side plate to control my portion sizes, chewed gum til my molars fell out, and look at me now mother-fuckers!”
Stage 2 scream “trim”. Only, not as trim as you were in your early twenties – but trim enough to want to show a little cleavage, and rock these Gap boyfriend jeans like you really think that one day you will have one again.
Stage 1 is the holy grail of jeans. These are the skinny, JBrand, Cameron Diaz, fuck-me jeans that say “My eggs are ripe and my left breast will knock your eye out when I orgasm. I live on Diet Coke, cigarettes and unfettered optimism that my life will always be FABULOUS.”
I look back fondly on those heady Stage 1 salad days. I can still see my pert backside, coupled with the slink of a knee-high boot over indigo denim, strutting down the street like a less hairy (and female) John Travolta.
But now, aged 104, I heave my bountiful forty-plus pear-shape out of bed every morning to go running, in the hope that my Stage 3 jeans will one day fit over my undulating thighs. The thighs that feature the kind of dimples that only look good if you’re a six-year-old girl, and they’re on your face.
I still have my skinny Stage 1’s. They sit in my closet and mock me. Doing silent Rihanna moves, winking at me with their shiny button fly, and pretending to be rich. It’s a front. They know they’re redundant, just like Woody in Toy Story 3 who knows that Andy doesn’t have any use for him any more.
And next to them on a hanger, waiting silently in the wings, my Stage 2’s are limbering up for action.
As am I.
Oh yes, I might be a spinster but I’m not dead yet.