Every year it happens – the leaves turn red, the chill on our legs overrides the desire to wear a dress and we breathe a sigh of relief at being able to hide under clothing and therefore avoid imaginary red rings around bums and tan stripes (since my late celebrity gossip magazine days, I automatically see giant scarlet circles around peoples body parts and/or garments whenever I see something noteworthy. Much like when you’ve been playing Tetris and still see the shapes before your eyes when you close them).
So every year this happens and it is a relief, it is an annual release from body image prison. Until you realise that although the bikini panic may be behind you for another year (thank you Kelly Brook for embracing curves at New Look – sorted for life), another garment related obstacle is looming on the September horizon, the sheer mountain that is the purchase of the annual pair of jeans.
Now, when I was a student and had money (the irony, I know) I could buy Diesel jeans that instantly transformed me into something acceptable and lasted me several years, but now that I have to spend my own money (and they have discontinued my favourite Diesel style) I have to invest in an annual pair from H&M, Primark or if I’m lucky River Island. And it is a draaaag.
So now jeans season is nearly upon us, or so the shock to my goose-bumped legs told me as the sun went behind the clouds this morning, and it’s a time that has always been challenging. It’s not just a case of different waist & leg sizes anymore. Oh no. Its different waists, heights, waist –heights, lengths, ranges, brands, colours, shades, fits...and that’s after we’ve spent a good few hours window shopping to short-list the shops even worth browsing. Basically if Diesel ever brings back Cherone I could save a lot of time every autumn and carve a few extra pumpkins. Don’t underestimate the value of repeat buying. If only it was like Dr’s prescriptions, where you can just call a number and a repeat order will hit your doormat on the first Saturday of every September. Really it should be an NHS service, given the medical attention I’m going to need after this year’s forthcoming jeans shopping attempt.
And now, to make matters worse, those naughty noughties saw the return of the skinny jean. The bane of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I love skinny jeans. I Heart them. Black, blue, faded, straight leg, drainpipe, I think they look gorgeous. On sienna Miller. Problem is, when like me you lack the Skinny Gene and are abstaining from appetite appeasing Diet Coke for want of fewer e-numbers, there’s a chance there’s going to be some extra junk in your trunk when it comes to squeezing into the trimmer trouser, unless you upgrade. And upgrading a clothes size is the worst kind of upgrade there is.
I’m not saying the curvy lass can’t pull off skinny jeans. I am sure many can rock their J-Lo’s marvellously in such a garment. My issue is, that come winter you want to finally feel like you don’t need to be the trimmest thing in town, and skinny jeans have the unfortunate side effect of clinging to your every cell. Thought you could hide under winter layers? No. Not if you want to stay ‘on trend’, my friend.
|Well of course they're smiling, their jeans shopping involves ordering a Personal Shopper to buy every size 0 in town|
I I'm determined in the next few weeks to find some skinny jeans that are low-rise, my size, faded in parts yet not in the parts that need minimising, drain-piped enough to tuck into boots yet not so slim my ankles fall off, do not leave me feeling like I’ve just gone out wrapped in cling film and have a magical expanding waistband that means under no circumstances will I have to upgrade. If I find them I will let you know.
Without wanting to be the first to lose faith in my own mission, I will be continuing to sit myself up all the way to hell until I have abs that put Fergie to shame, just in case the above prayer is not answered.