Oh dear. A dreadful thing happened this weekend.
First, a bit of background. Last summer, Lands End Canvas was selling a delightful pair of shorts with cheery white sailboats on a field of orange or navy blue. Being that I'm a fun-loving gal, I decided to live on the wild side and go with the orange shorts. Sadly, when they arrived, they were a size too large and had already sold out in the size smaller. Loving the orange, but knowing I probably wouldn't get around to having them altered any time soon, I went ahead and ordered a blue pair in the smaller size, and happily wore them the rest of the summer.
Then winter came, and with its cooler temperatures, my torrid love affair with jeggings began. I always swore that leggings and jeans were the most heinous combination imaginable. But then I discovered a style at Old Navy that came complete with a button and zip fly, and a fabric bordering much more closely on denim territory than 1980s workout video spandex. And so, I bought a pair in every color, and spent the wintry months ensconced in their stretchy embrace.
The season passed, and suddenly with little to no warning, the lowcountry was thrust unceremoniously into the grips of a steamy summer. The heat is a welcome respite to this Southern girl, but with those balmy 80-90 degree days, I had to bid a heartwrenching farewell to my much beloved jegging and boot uniform of the winter.
This past weekend brought with it the perfect opportunity to break out my dapper little blue sailboat-bedecked shorts, as we were off to a Greek Fest, and I felt that my small salute to their national colors and boating influenced culture would be much appreciated. So I dug through my drawer, slipped the shorts up above my knees, squeezed them past my thighs, and then... that's when it happened. My very own Battle of One Very Specific Bulge. Still, I persevered, and managed to shoehorn myself into the shorts and fasten the button.
I looked in the mirror, heady with the victory over winter and spring's many culinary delights, and was horrified not to find a slim 20-something winking back at me from that pane of torments, but instead my head and torso atop two sailboat encased sausages.
"But HOW can this BE!!!!" I cried, as I gnashed my teeth, rended my garments, and clawed at the button to release myself from this nautical prison. Had I not worn the very same jeggings all the season long? How could physics so fail me that I could go from feeling like a svelte Anthropologie model ready for a day of cultural experiences, to a mockery of a Cathy comic? And that's when I realized how jeggings have taken their power and wielded it in the most dastardly of manners. Using their 99% spandex 1% cotton composition to lure one into a false sense of body image security, then leaving us to our own devices once the less forgiving fabrics of our wardrobe come back to haunt us in the midst of the most skin-baring season of the year.
And so, I furiously jammed my little blue sailboats back into the drawer, and with great mortification, retrieved the orange pair from the bottom of the alterations bag, where they had patiently waited all year for me to come crawling back, greeting me with the distinct whiff of smug triumph as they slid easily over my own personal Ardennes.
I managed to drown my sorrows in a delicious gyro swimming in feta and tzaziki as well as a decadent baklava sundae, but today I'm turning over a new leaf... again. I've retrieved my discarded Dukan diet book from it's hiding place where I cast it off while riding the high of a successful first week and careened into a week of dinners out and Goldfish crackers. I'm determined to fit back into those damned shorts if it's the last thing I do--before returning to the seductive lure of the jeggings come Fall. Until then, I always did think orange might just be my color.