Blue is my world when I'm without you, Part 2

Part 1

After I exhausted my cheaper alternatives for blue jeans, I had no choice but to head to the mall. I don't really like the mall- too many people who look better than me, and too many people in general. In my price pattern, I headed to the cheaper of the 2 malls. Atlanta, in some evil-genius strategy, only has 2 malls and they are literally across the street from one another. Both have a Gap.

I exhausted Bloomingdales, Macy's, and Neiman Marcus. I felt fat and ugly by Urban Outfitters, Guess, and Gap. I vowed never to enter American Eagle or Hollister again. Then I saw it: Abercrombie. I had been telling friends recently that I haven't bought anything from there since I was in high school, but I still wore the clothes every day and they fit me better and lasted me longer than any other article of clothing. So what if pants are $70? They'll last me 10 years.

I counted on my fingers, it had been 7 years since I walked into an Abercrombie. I saw all the colors that perfectly match each other and can be worn interchangeably. I was a sucker for the Abercrombie orange. I touched a few t-shirts, mentally noting that I needed to come back here after this whole jeans fiasco. I held up a t-shirt that read, "Blonde with a brain" and laughed. I needed this. But something didn't seem right about the shirt; it looked... smaller. Distracted by the sight of jeans, I set the shirt down and walked away.

My penchant for jeans that cover my butt crack left me with only 2 viable options at Abercrombie: a "distressed" pair and a normal pair. I don't mind the holes in the knees-- I can't wear blue jeans to work anyways, so what did it matter? I looked up at the wall and tried to find my size.

Double zeros and zeros were on a shelf at the height of my shoulders. At the height of my head was the shelf of the twos. Above that, the fours. I kid you not-- the shelf with the sixes and the eights were right below the ceiling. Even at my height, I couldn't reach them. Logically, it makes sense because the double zeros are probably shorter than me, the six. But one thought kept running through my mind over and over: Fatty can't reach the jeans. Fatty can't reach the jeans. Fatty can't reach the jeans.

This fatty was not about to ask the size double zero behind the counter to grab the stick and poke down the big girl sizes. I began the super cool and super stealth move of jumping up while trying to knock any pair down. After looking like a thorough ass clown, I was successful.

Teeny-tiny Double Zero opened the dressing room door for me. 7 years ago, Abercrombie sizes ran big. This was not the case anymore. Also Abercrombie does not account for body parts such as the hips. Or the ass. Or the waist for that matter. Knees down they looked great though.

Goodbye, Blonde with a brain t-shirt. I fear I shall never see you again.

With perfect timing, my phone rings. "How's the jeans hunt?" Erin asked.

"When did I get so old?!" I cried. I told her about American Eagle and Abercrombie. "I want pants that go right up to the bottom of my belly button, why is this an impossible request?"

"Abercrombie is for skinny preteens," she snarked. "You know they have a weight requirement to work there?"

"Yeah, I met Double Zero. It didn't used to be like that," I sniffed.

I thought back to my jeans at home. Dear Calvin Kleins, why the big gaping hole? You fit me perfectly even fresh from the dryer. You came with a belt that matched most my winter wardrobe. You had the perfect dark wash that seems to be coming out of style in lieu of acid wash.

Eff this.

I went home and picked up my jeans folded neatly on top of the bed. Every time I stitched them back together by hand or by the sewing machine, they always ripped apart again. Almost immediately. As soon as I climbed in my truck, I felt a breeze on my left thigh. In college I had one foolproof method that fixed hems that came undone and bra straps the dog chewed through.

I went to my night stand and opened the bottom drawer, hoping it would still be there with a few other select school supplies. Under the binder of every paper I had written in college, and next to the three-hole-punch, I found it. I was lucky.

I turned my bad pant leg inside out and began work. I lined up the newest ripped edges and began stapling. That's right. I did it. I stapled my pants back together. If thread wasn't going to keep this tear together, little metal prongs would. I put the jeans on and admired my work. The pants, even with the staple edges, looked better than anything I had on that day. You couldn't even seen the staple edges because of where the rip was.

"You stapled your pants together." Erin, somehow, was not surprised.

"Yes, yes I did."

"Well you can't really tell."

"He's got no business getting personal with my ass anyways, so I think I'll get away with it."

Erin laughed.

The staples did the job. Not once throughout the night did I feel my pants tear. The next morning I pulled the jeans off the floor and admired my work again. The rip was still closed, but a new one began at the top of the row of staples. The staples compromised the fabric even further and now my pants looked like Frankenstein's monster's neck.

Looks like my hunt for blue jeans continues. There's only one place left.