The Day Girls: God's Gift to Skinny Jeans

I've often curled my lip up at the stick-figure boys in ratty jean jackets and wanna-be-Maine flannels, their hair delicately coifed in an elvis-throw-back-to-the-days-of-white-appropriation-in -the-jim-crowe-south, wondering "what's their message?" And I've often stared in moderate disgust at their heterosexual-yet-so-alienated white female counterparts, their bodies paralleling their boyfriend's in an androgynous mirror that makes up the pbr drinking 20-somethings.

The problem is, I'm not that interested in watching a torso maneuver around on a pair of muscle- atrophied legs because, quite frankly, it makes me wonder if I should follow closely behind, a stocky shadow waiting to catch them if the wind blows them over. It makes me anxious.

But then a beautiful thing started to happen a few years ago. Everyone started wearing the skinny jean. I began to see more attention being paid to well-crafted leather boots; patterned chiffon re-emerged as a delicate draping across a well-cupped breast (can you tell I'm a lesbian yet?) and off-the-shoulder flap-dance sweaters brought the Reagon-era into the ironic forefront, juxtaposing itself against our black president and his socialist healthcare proposals (proposals I wish, frankly, were actually a bit more socialist).

As I started to invest in cheap trends as a way of updating my teaching wardrobe, I realized that without the skinny jean, my body looked like a large sack. And so I talked to my sister.

I have two sisters. Both of whom have the same ass as me, an ass that has often been admired in our Puerto Rican neighborhoods, cat-called by passing cars in South Boston, and squeezed uncomfortably into poorly-tailored jeans in department stores. Buying pants has been a constant struggle--I know I buy a few sizes up and work to raise hems and take in leg lines, every new or new-to-me pair of pants becoming a few hours on a Saturday afternoon of needle-pricks and tangled thread.

Luckily, when I started to feel like it might be time for me try out the skinny jean, my oldest sister knew exactly what to do: she's spent the last 15 years working in retail and is now currently a store manager for a popular jean line in downtown Boston. "You need to buy a size up," she said. "And you need to buy a jegging--they have more stretch." She loaded my arms up with clothing to try, my own personal shopper who just happens to have my ass, and off I went to dressing rooms. We settled on a pair of charcoal black skinny jeans ("jegging") that have since become a staple in my wardrobe.

Here's what I like about them: I didn't have to do any tailoring. I can do the splits in my jeans (which, technically, because of physical therapy, I'm not allowed to do anymore). I can show off my motorcycle boots. My ass has a shape.

I've been feeling good about my new jeans all fall until recently, when pictures emerged on the FB from a baby shower a few weekends ago. There I am, in the company of colleagues, in a bright maroon cardigan and an orange scarf, my legs thick as they anchor me onto a kitchen stool by the food table. I feel wide. The largest person in the picture. And I struggle to see myself positively: curves, in skinny jeans, making an oxymoron out of a fashion statement. And then I think: perhaps the problem is in the name of the jean. Perhaps the problem is in that double-n that screams off the page, making a mockery of those of us who simply want a little stretch in the fabric of our jeans.