Whips, Chains and Blood Spatter- What I don't want to see on my Jeans.

Even though I poke fun of certain people for making certain concoctions, I must admit that I, myself, am going the way of describing tomatoes as 'real nice' and wearing 'mom' jeans.

We get the Good Food Box every two weeks at work, and it has become a major event in my life.
I lift the lid and peer in, curious and strangely excited about this weeks selection of fresh, local produce.
"Baby potatoes!" I exclaimed to a coworker. "And lemons!"
I was feeling tingly all over. I could make roasted baby lemon potatoes!
"Corn on the cob!" my other coworker said, pulling out ears of corn.
"Fresh cilantro!" I said, bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply.
We had hit the jackpot!
I am so looking forward to going home tonight to make a nice, hearty fall soup.
I would put the recipe on here- but I don't want to be one of those people that posts recipes for soup on her blog, complete with photos and annoying captions, pictures of their kids in their home sewn Halloween costumes and biblical passages-- not that there's anything wrong with that.
It just ain't me.
At least, not yet.

And as for jeans- well I am still not quite at the elastic waist band stage of things, I fear that I might not be too far off.
My last foray into jean shopping did not go well. The term 'unmitigated disaster' comes to mind, to which you might think I'm merely overwriting things here- but this is not flowery overwriting. This is the truth.

First of all, I had to wade through a million pairs of size two and four jeans to even get to a size 8.
And that pair still looked super tiny. I looked at them, skeptical.
"They're supposed to be tight fitting," the girl assured me.
"Are they all so tight fitting?" I asked.
"That's the style," she told me.
I wasn't convinced.
"Is there anything- a bit looser fitting?"
She held up a pair of cargo pants with a chain hanging from the waist. "But maybe not quite that loose," I qualified. And maybe less chainy, as well, I thought to myself.
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and sighed, snapping her pink bubble gum loudly.
She stalked off across the store, brought back another pair, which were scuffy looking with wide tears across the knees and something that looked like blood spatter splotched randomly on the thighs.
I wasn't trying to be difficult.
But was it too much to ask to get an article of clothing that didn't have a chain hanging off of it or look like it was recovered from a fatal rollover scene??
Apparently it was. I looked at the jeans with open disapproval.
"Is there anything- sort of plain looking?"
She looked at me like I was speaking another language.
Maybe I was.
She threw a pile of jeans at me in a light wash ans showed me to the change room.
Every pair I tried on waist such that it fell right on top of my pubic bone, leaving a bulge of unsightly fat hanging out over top of it.
I took in my side profile, trying to convince myself that maybe- maybe, with the right shirt, say- it could work.
I looked like a recovering alcoholic still working down the beer belly.

Anyways. These days,  I wear trousers. Black or charcoal dress pants.
You can dress them up or down and it's much less complicated than jean shopping.