Molly Bloom knows style

Last week I ended the humiliating search for a new pair of jeans. I bought a sensible yet stylish pair that are affordable and comfortable. The first day I wore them my husband said “Heeeeey, nice butt” as I passed him in the hallway. Taking his pinch as a seal of approval, I threw away the receipt.

In the past my jeans were all custom-made at the Levi’s store downtown. One turn in the Star Trek laser-measuring booth and my stats were on file for future visits. Those jeans were the right length and the right fabric and they had a button fly per my instructions. I bought a pair of ready-to-wear at Levi’s this summer, but they are so low-cut that I can take them off without unzipping them — not to mention the coin-slot action (note to self: sit down, bend over and do yoga in the dressing room before buying clothes). I am still holding a grudge that they didn’t give me a heads-up that the custom line was being discontinued. Jerks.

The montage scene of my jeans-shopping experience would feature unknown brands with sticker-shock prices that look as though they are filthy; there’s weird embroidery on the pockets, the legs are tight and the rise is how-low-can-you-go. I started calling that yellow-dirty finish a shit stain rinse. I have no idea what the industry calls it (other than “gimmick”).

I have friends who have expensive denim fetishes and apparently they have found the right brand for their butt. My butt and my head just can’t take that kind of abuse. I’d rather spend that money on shoes.

(Headline borrowed from David Bowie)