The sisterhood of my (short-lived) traveling pants.

This morning was a sad, sad day.

It is Friday, a jeans day, and I got my colleague to cover court for me. I was all set to strap on my favorite jeans, the heat wave having made it oppressive to have anything snug and denim on my body until this very morning. I did the usual routine: one leg in, a little stretch, and then the other leg in and a stretch. I proceeded to yank up the waistband up over my hips and butt and do the appropriate stretch to settle the butt cheeks in when I heard a rrrrrrriiiiip.

Yep. My post fabulous pair of jeans had ripped in the most awful place. Only two years old, they were bought on a rather depression-filled shopping trip with one of my best friends. I was going through something awful in life, she was pregnant and willing to lend her ear, and we were set to spend the day together in the best way I know how to handle depression: shopping, manicures and tequila. Well, tequila for me. Not for her. Duh.

I remember trying on several pairs in the department store while we were shopping. Having to deal with massive amounts of student loans, I don't usually pay so much money for my clothes aside from work-related attire. But these jeans were special. They fit me very well, the store would alter them to be the perfect length and the price tag likely meant I could wear them forever. Right? I mean, normal people don't plop down two hundred bones to throw out a pair of jeans at the end of the season. Despite the fact I had never spent such a sum on a pair of jeans, I needed them. These were just the ticket to get out of my depression, I felt it. I plopped down my credit card, signed the little slip and was on my way.

I received them shortly after, altered to the appropriate length. I loved them so very much. They made my butt look great. They went with everything. I wore them any time jeans were appropriate. While I might have noticed over the past year that they involved a bit more deep stretching to get up over my slightly wider hips, I continued to don them all the time. The fabric was looking a little drab, yes. I was developing a bit of a muffin top at the waist. There were areas where the material seemed bit thinner and the seams appeared a bit more strained.

ALRIGHT, I GAINED SOME WEIGHT. Fine. I realize that. But those jeans were supposed to stretch! When I bought them, the lady tried to talk me into the size smaller because they would stretch. Haha. Laugh's on her...apparently they do not stretch enough. Oh. Never mind. Laugh is on me. I'm the one with the big butt (and I cannot lie).

Let it be known that this is not a ruse (a ruse? A ruse. A cunning attempt to trick you.) to get people to tell me my butt isn't big. I'm not that shallow. I'm aware of the harsh reality that my usual twenty-something lifestyle must be overhauled to fit into this impending decade of a slower metabolism and wrinkles.

Truthfully, I am more sad to kiss those jeans goodbye than I am that I'm a bit heavier. While they were bought at a difficult time in my life, they make me think of that wonderful day with my where I spent entirely too much money, we had our toes painted and then celebrated with margaritas (again, me, not her). Maybe those jeans were not meant to cross into my thirties. Sisterhood of the traveling pants, they clearly were not meant to be. But the sisterhood that brought those jeans into my home in the first place is well settled to be coming with me into my new decade. (Love you, K!) And maybe with a little effort I can bring a little less butt.