A little wise-cracking goes… too far!
Okay, while I was all busy dealing with breast cancer, I guess I lost my fabulous fashionista flair! And that, as they say, ain’t pretty. To make matters even worse, I didn’t even realize I was no longer a maven of style until I mistakenly purchased some low rise jeans. How does that happen, you ask?
I recently went to a CAbi home shopping party. If you haven’t been to one, let me just say that although CAbi supposedly stands for Carol Anderson by invitation, if you are like me, it should stand for Cash (CA) bye bye (bi). It always sounds so innocent when someone smiles at you and says, “I’m having a few ladies over on Thursday night to look at clothes. You don’t have to buy anything; it will just be fun, food and wine.”
Here’s what you don’t know about me, unless you’ve made the mistake of inviting me over – mention free food and wine and I’m there. Of course I don’t have to buy anything. This is always my mantra until I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, and then suddenly I’m a Rockefeller. So what if the jacket won’t go with anything I already own – I must have it! Who cares if the dress will make me look like a character bumped off of Jersey Shore? Just call me The Dire Situation. I can’t be bothered with trying something on – that would mean I’d have to put down my wine and appetizers. No way! I can eyeball an outfit and tell if it will fit. What I can’t tell is if it will look fitting on me.
So when I spotted a pair of darling rolled-up cuff jeans, I just knew they were meant for me. They even had a cute name: Johnny Jeans. What’s not to love about that? Next came the wait, because when you purchase clothes at a home party, unless you happen to be the lucky woman who is size 6, they usually don’t have what you’ve ordered on hand.
Oh, the anticipation. I just knew these jeans were gonna change my life. I just knew these jeans were gonna make me look 10 years younger, 20 pounds thinner, and unfortunately, my wallet much lighter as well. In retrospect, the only way they would have made me look younger and/or thinner was if I’d buttoned the waistband, somehow wedged my face through the open zipper and used them as a headpiece.
When they finally arrived I could hardly wait to wear them. I tore the bag open and immediately put those puppies on. Wait, what’s this? They only come up part way to my waist. Tug and pull as I might, they still have this “funny” (and I don’t mean ha-ha) fit.
Flash forward to the next day at work and I’m bemoaning this fiasco to a co-worker (I might add, a young co-worker) who rolls her eyes at me and says, “Those are low rise jeans; you’re supposed to wear a thong with them so when you bend over everyone can see your pretty underwear. They are designed to show your butt cleavage.”
Hello – not only don’t I want to show that new-to-me term – but I’d be willing to bet there isn’t anyone out there who wants to see it, either. Shucks, I gave up wearing thongs right after I managed to put a pair on the wrong way (don’t ask and I won’t tell!) And the idea that I would want to display said thong even if I was wearing it, is beyond my ability to comprehend.
Someone tried to tell me this is the modern day hip hugger. NOPE! I was a hip hugger, bell bottom gal and I can tell you that those actually hugged my hips. Those were the days. Low rise jeans (at least the ones I recently managed to buy without trying on) hug my hips until I decide to bend over, and then, well, let’s just say, there’s a full moon even when the sun is shining!
While I may once have mourned the loss of my frontal cleavage after my breast surgeries, I can definitely say that having my derriere exposed to the airy air, isn’t all it’s cracked up to be!