This is actually a sad post. I’ve spoken in length about all the weddings I attended, and how one of them actually put the last nail in the coffin of my friendship with Radhika. That one still bothers me and it hurt, but there was another, much bigger, loss that happened at that time, and from which I have not yet recovered. I’m talking about my favorite pair of skinny jeans.
I swear to God I’m not being dramatic when I say that I valued those jeans more than any of my yet unborn children. I can always make more children, I will never find another pair that fits my ass like these jeans did. I am shallow and vain, but I have to admit it’s not just about that. The reality is that these jeans were with me for the longest time.
I remember when I first saw them: The day was beautiful, it was warm and sunny in Rome. It was June 2008, I had just finished the Erasmus in Rouen and was hopeful for whatever the future had in store for me. I was also fat as fuck. That was already bad, but if my waist had gotten big, my delusional ass had gotten larger. I refused to admit I was not the skinny twink I had once been, and did my best to follow Cata’s – a bitch with an actual eating disorder – teachings. She was my Jesus Christ, I was her Mary Magdalene. She basically told me that no matter how much weight I gained, I should never go and buy the larger size because that was me unconsciously telling my body that I approved of its fatness, and my body would somehow understand that it was OK to do it again, and again, and again, and again, and again, until people would only be attracted to me because of my gravitational pull. Ouch.
I’m not saying she was right, but I’m also not saying she was wrong. She was an extremely successful anorexic right until the moment she stopped talking to me died.
Side note: This bitch pulled a Regina George early into our collective Erasmus experience, and started wearing pajamas day and night, every day of the week, since nothing else fit her. Gotta give it to her, she was fucking crazy committed.
That was fine and all when we were getting plastered every day of the week at the student residences and then at shabby bars with sketchy French men lurking in the shadows, but it just didn’t have the same vibe when one was strolling around the streets of Rome. So of course I found the Dolce & Gabbana store and I went right in.
Did I ever tell you my superpower is walking in a store and immediately finding the one thing I want, which is usually the prettiest but also the most expensive? Well, this was not the exception. I immediately spotted the jeans, but the saleswoman got to me first. I asked her for my pre-fatty size (size 28) only for that hoe to not-so-silently judge me. I doubted I would fit, but my resolve was stronger, and honestly, I just wanted to prove that saleswoman wrong.
Of course I didn’t fit.
I requested the next size, my emotions having already processed denial and having moved on to bargaining phase, and the fucking jeans went up just below the knee before getting stuck. Well, that was quickly becoming embarrassing. I got size 30 and it choked my thighs to death. Well, fuck me. I asked for the next size as I fought for my life, trying to not lose my legs to gangrene. And you know what that cunt of a saleswoman told me? She literally told me she would skip that and bring me size 34 instead.
I was gagged.
So I managed to take the pants off, stepped out of the fitting room, and bought the jeans in size 28. The bitch’s jaw hit the floor at my audacity and asked me for my credit card. It was my jaw’s turn to hit the floor when she told me the jeans cost 800 euros, but God forbid I gave her yet another reason to humiliate me, so I paid for them and left the store with my head up high and mentally gaping my hole in preparation for when my parents fuck me sideways for spending that much money in a pair of jeans.
There were two things that no one expected:
- Turns out buying extremely expensive clothing and then having to wear it or else my parents’ screaming and yelling and grounding, etc., would have been pointless, is a legit good weight loss method. I fucking lost all the extra kilos I had on me and looked my fucking best in those jeans. Ozempic patients, eat your heart out. Actually, don’t eat anything, that’s kind of the point.
- These jeans lasted me in perfect conditions for 14.5 years, I swear to God. Even my mom, who’s just gotten over that period of our lives where I spent and she paid, admits that that was a good purchase given how long it lasted.
So, there you go. My beautiful Dolce & Gabbana jeans, this post is for you. You, who were with me throughout university, my first job, my moving to Canada, and so on and so forth. We looked fucking fierce no matter the occasion. We discovered the world together; Europe, America, Asia, you name it. You were one of the few constant things in my life through and through, and you made my legs and ass look great till the very final moment.
Thank you to that cunt of a saleswoman for pushing me to buy you, thank you to my mom for not ripping my head off when she saw the credit card statement, and thank you, my beautiful jeans, for always pushing me to look skinnier do more and to do it better.
