Jeans

The weather is getting beautifully colder and an attire change is required.  It feels a bit like getting new clothes when I pull out my fall/winter things.  This morning I’m revisiting and revising a piece of flash fiction I wrote some time ago that returned to my mind as I slid into some denim. 

Merriam-Webster online offered this definition of blue jeans:  pants usually made of blue denim.

        “Indigo blue workman’s pants.  How did they come to be wardrobe essentials worth so much money?” Angelica ruminated as she fingered and flicked away the price tag on a pair of jeans.  Yet she knew she might pay it – pay whatever the cost – to find just one pair of dungarees that fit.  Really, truly fit.  No cramming her stomach into submission to close a button.  No jumping and tugging to get the waistband past generous thighs.  Her body was not the primary problem, did not make her uncomfortable – the problem, the source of discomfort, is the pants.

        Selecting three dark blue possible contenders, Angelica weaved through gleaming stainless steel racks.  At the far end of the dressing room she shut the door of a closet like space near the all-seeing, multi-angled mirror.  Skirt shimmied to the floor, she guided one leg and then the other to descend into the denim – no jumping required.  As the buttons were a breeze, selection one held promise.  Oh.  Wait.  The gap.  The waistband above her butt was an open mouth sticking out a tongue of Victoria Secrets cotton briefs.  Angelica knew this would require extreme belting and the added bulk would only feel good while standing.  Pair one, rejected.  Removed.  Returned to the clamps of their hanger.

        Candidate number two shook to life.  A little hula wiggle got the jeans up smoothly but up and up they ascend.  High rise?  Angelica’s ribs and ankles cry for life as she realizes the waistband is only inches from her bra and the skinny cut decreed on the tag may be cutting off circulation.  No need to waste a gander in the mirror on this pair; they double as a corset and support hose.

        The last chance unfolds from the bench.  Stretching to their full length the slacks slide on like stiff cotton skin.  They don’t bind.  Angelica steps into the hall to confront the tall mirror.  Her investigation reveals a front that looks pretty good.  A turn to the side offers a satisfactory sight.  The rear view rotates into scrutiny.  Angelica is brought to wonder, “Do the pockets on these britches make my butt look big?”  The answer to the final question:  Yes.  The pockets are not flattering.  This marks the third pair as two-thirds tolerable.  Angelica twists and assesses.  “How high a price should a girl pay for just okay?” 

        She returns three rejected pairs of jeans to the rack outside the dressing room and strides in her old skirt from the store thinking of what blue may be in the next shop.