I look so hot in my new jeans that I want to do myself.

Due to a recent spate of weight loss (“spate” is the wrong word because it has been a steady healthy flow of weight loss. I thought at first it was the “break up diet” and, at first, it partially was due to the end of a relationship. The real reason, though, I have figured out since is that the end of that relationship also meant the end of round-the-clock $1.75 pupusas. Sans pupusa, Starpower is sans lovin’ ass. But she’s also sans jeans that fit.), so—to complete the sentence I began roughly seven sentences ago—I needed me some fitting drawers. Like all purchases of any magnitude, I did it on the fly. Unplanned, spur of the moment, and, in this case, a semi-desperate attempt to get out of the heinousness that has been plaguing my commute home all week. Stupid diverted traffic from stupid construction in this city I wouldn’t dream of saying a bad thing about, ever.

The store is strategically located right on the corner of a major intersection on my drive home. It has parking in front and, on this occasion, an empty space calling my name. It would have been hard to hear it calling my name over the din of cars idling and their loud beats and/or talk radio spilling into the air, but this call was different—like on a different frequency—like angels whispering in my ear, “Come. Shop.” When the light (fiiiiinally) turned green, I found myself steering the car to the right and into the parking lot instead of continuing straight home. Who am I to argue against angels?

I park and enter, passing the snowboard section, the skateboard section, the skate video section, the mountain bike section, the impressive-collection-of-Vans section, a 12 year old skater on the ramp-in-the-middle-of-the-store section (not to be confused with the caged-in half-pipe in the parking lot with several other 12 year olds). At last, I arrive at the lady’s section (it’s totally not the pre-teen girls’ section, shut up!). I lament the lack of actual shoes and abundance of $15 flip flops. I move on to the baby tees and then come across a sweater that is so cute I still feel tempted go back and get it. It’s blue with buttons along one shoulder and on the front it has like an iron-on flower in red and salmon pink and if there’s one thing I love, it’s red and pink together. And if there’s one thing I REALLY love it’s the ashy shade of blue of the sweater itself. The problem? Next to the super cute flower design is a giant fancy Rip Curl logo and some other doodly things. The design in itself isn’t a problem—but that I’m 31 and consider wearing a sweater with said design might be. I mean, it’s cute and all and I’m cute and all but that may be a little too much cute for a woman my age (ugh) to pull off. Or maybe it’s cute and I’m not cute so much as just really sexy and womanly and the sweater’s cuteness may try to undermine the sexy that is ME and, of course, fail miserably (because, come on, nice try). So, with a heavy heart, I returned the sweater to the rack. (Though if you have daughters or nieces who are Degrassi age, let me know—I’ll point you to this great little gift item.)

The jeans. At this point, I ‘m a little gun shy. But, behold: flarier-than-boot-cuts and super-low-rise galores! Complete with wide inseams sewn with red and yellow thread. And thick belt loops. And the perfect shade of dark-but-worn blue. I try them on. If it had eyeballs, my ass would have wept. But I have eyes. Four of them. And they were all really, really happy.