Tag Archives: For the L.O.G!

Killed by the Skinny Jean

– Contributed by Wee C

So, while I love the insights Big L and I share with our readers, I’ve been feeling like my content has been a smidge heavy lately. So I’m looking to lighten the mood this week with a little “laugh at yourself humour”. Dear readers: here is the story of my lifelong battle with the skinny jean (SJ). A profound story, yes?

I’ve avoided the SJ for as long as they’ve been fashionable; at least this time around. You, see, I was late to the party the first time they were in fashion, sometime in the late 80s. I was the last of my friends to buy them and when I did secure my very own pair, I ensured they were the version with the zippers at the bottom, rock star that I was. But, like a shooting star, the trend fizzled, and I was left zipping and unzipping my pant legs while everyone else had moved on and was basking in the comfort of the baggy carpenter jean. Why such a stark contrast was necessary, is beyond me. Guess who was late to that party, too? I’ll tell you the story of wearing my dad’s jeans in another blog post

So when I found myself wandering into one of the city’s boutiques to find myself a pair of these ill-fated knickers, I surprised myself. Maybe it was the fabulous “I’ve just been to the hair-dressers and can’t get this look at home” do, or the fact that every fashionista seems to have boycotted the wide-legged pants that I have come to adore, but I was determined that I would once again give myself over to the skinny jean. But this time, I would show those pants who’s boss.

I swaggered into the boutique, perched my sunglasses atop my freshly blonded hair and sashayed past the Halifax socialites who frequent the joint like Italians frequent the espresso bar. And I went straight for the sales rack. I’d be damned if I was going to pay full price for a pair of jeans that may never see the light of day.

An armload of skinny jeans later and I found myself in the fitting room, full of gusto, and ready to tackle my challenge head on. And then the red face, sweating and grunting began. All in the name of getting the leg of the jean past my ankle. Here’s my theory on skinny jeans: they got their namesake because putting them on is the equivalent of completing a marathon. I hopped, tugged and twisted until they were finally up over my calves.

And after all that work, they looked hideous. Tragic, even. The memories came flooding back. I was almost in the fetal. Until I realized that putting a pair of boots on may help my cause…after all, the boot over the skinny jean was, in fact, what had inspired me to try the trend once again. So I shimmied the boots up over my leg and proceed to zip (ahem, force) the boots over the jeans. And…STILL TRAGIC! I was defeated, deflated, and my fabulous hair was falling flat. It was time to abort. I’d just unzip the boots, wrestle the jeans off my body and be done with it. Except that the boots seemed to be a wee bit stuck. Actually, a whole lot stuck. Like couldn’t get them unzipped stuck. You.have.got.to.be.kidding.me.

At first, I though the jeans were jammed in the boots and I would be stuck with these wretched pants forever. But, alas, that would have been a far better outcome. No, these damn SJ, took both me and my boots as its victim. A piece of leather from my beloved boots got stuck in the zipper (a direct result of my aggressive attempt to get them done up over the jeans) and that was the end of it.

The moment of reckoning came when the sales women politely knocked on the door and asked if I needed any help. Indeed I did. I was forced to poke my head out of my fitting room, and call for a pair of scissors. That’s right. I cut my boot off my leg. My beautiful, Spanish-made boot. CUT OFF MY LEG. Can I get a collective gasp, please?!

With as much fabulousness as I walked in with, I walked out with embarrassment. No new jeans and a boot being held together with a bull dog clip. The SJ had beat me again. I mourned my loss.

A few weeks later, I was shopping with a friend and we made our way into the same store. Still in the need of jeans, I humbled myself and perused the rack (note the SAME sales woman who was working during my previous adventure was working again…sigh). And, somehow, decided to pick up yet another pair of skinny jeans. The look from the sales lady was amused.

Well, low and behold, those skinny jeans fit. And were actually not bad. So, I bought them. I spent real money on the SJ. I left feeling pretty jubilant, excited to once again be part of this trend (laggard or not).

Yeah, I haven’t worn them yet. But the fact that I can, whenever I want, means I won and it makes the money spent all worthwhile. Except for the boots. They were killed by the skinny jean.


Checking off number 20, by starting at number 1.

– Contributed by Wee C

The explanation of the 30 Things project is easily explained under the 30 Things tab (in other words, read that first). What’s not so easily explained is why this project is so darned important to me personally, and how it took me 29 years to come to one simple realization. Here’s what you really need to know.

Turning 30 is a milestone I’ve looked forward to since I was 16. A self-professed adorer of khakis, crisp white blouses, pearls, and snuggling (seriously, I belonged on the cover of a university prospectus – oh wait, I was), I was destined to be good at being 30. Most importantly, with 30 came the ability to stop apologizing. I could stop apologizing for going to bed at 10 pm. For only having one drink at the party. For politely insulting people: “I don’t like that girl’s shoes. Oh, but don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she’s a really nice girl!” For me, at 30, the stars would bring my age and my behaviour in line and I could finally be set free from all the restrictions I had placed on myself, all the rules I refused to break, all the fun I politely declined to have. And I believed that with 30 would come two glorious years to become all that I was meant to be. After all, at 33, it was off to the inevitable destination of motherhood.

So, when my 29th birthday came, you would think that I would have marked the occasion with a new, lined notebook that I would use for the next year to carefully plan out my 30th birthday party and the 730 days that followed. I almost did. But one (rare) visit to the gym and a small window of solitude brought the always dangerous situation of self-reflection. Running on the treadmill, it hit me. Ohmygodimturning30nextyearwhatthehell?! Simmer. So what, you’re turning 30? Celebrate damn it, you’re about to hit your prime – leave behind the silliness, say good-bye to the drunken foolishness that your friends have been subjecting you to (my it’s nice to be high and mighty), become a vice-president and fulfill your glorious destiny. Insert starbursts and sparkles here.

But the feeling was nagging. Something wasn’t right. I was gearing up to leave a decade that, in many ways, I had never been present for to begin with. I had been biding my time, accepting my 20s as a necessary hurdle to get to my 30s – like the climb on a roller coaster, you simply have to wait for the chains to slowly bite onto every cog until you got to the very top and finally, your patience has been rewarded with the thrill of the drop.

Now that I was on the brink of plunging to the bottom, I wanted off the ride. I wanted to get back into the lineup. I wanted to stand on the ground and eat the cotton candy that I had previously passed up because it would probably make my teeth blue. And then it hit me. You can’t get down, you can’t stop the inevitable, you will indeed barf all over the cute guy in front of you. But before you do that, enjoy the feeling of anticipation of being at the top; of looking out at the theme park with a perspective that no one else in the park has. The moment before the drop, that’s the best part of the ride and at 29, I’m sitting there, tettering back and forth between the climb and the fall.

So that day at the gym, with sweaty hair plastered to my forehead, the red face of a bad drunk, and my spandex pants causing me a colossal wedgie, I began my 20s all over again. Good-bye university prospectus, hello Play Girl. Well, Redbook, at least…

And today? Well today, I’ve checked number 20 off my list of 30 Things to do. I’ve written a blog post that the whole world may theoretically see (yes, I do think I’m that interesting). I’ve been talking about doing this since I started the 30 Things project, but it’s taken me this long to get up the nerve. That’s because, frankly, this is plenty scary for me. The idea that you all may think I’m a terrible writer, given that my career revolves around communicating, is frightening. Or that you think I’m self-indulgent and trite…also reasonably unsettling. But much of what my 30 Things represents is letting go of what other people think about me. So, the hell with you…