Skinny jeans.

 Call me another Simon Peter. Though, I wouldn’t say that I’ve betrayed anything worthy of worship. Merely my sense of right and wrong in the case of Sense and Practicality. Trendiness cunningly deceived me away from a sincere and pure consecration of fashion sense. Maybe you could call me Eve.

Here is where I lay out the betrayal.

You remember the 90’s. Charged acid wash jeans tapered to accentuate the hips. Cut off shirts. Ponderous perms supped up with 220 volts. Never again do we want to go there.

Yet, in a way, the 90’s have serpented their way back into Style Magazine. I feel myself strangely deceived into liking some aspects of the flashback into Michael Jackson era. Skinny jeans happened to be the fruit in this garden that looked good.

It all began with jean shopping. During most of my shopping experience, my gaze was ricocheted off of the so called skinny jeans. I was strong. Determined. Never would I slip my foot into those things. They weren’t quite tapered, but they stretched. Imagine it—getting into them would be like stuffing a snake back into its discarded skin.

Before I knew it, there was a pair—two pairs—in my hands. I was in line for the dressing room. It all flashed before me. Suddenly, I watched myself as a pair slipped up over my hips. Not bearing to see the results, and envisioning an image similar to that of Angela Lansbury in a black leather mini skirt, I shut my eyes.

Have you ever stood in front of the dreaded fun house mirrors?

Slowly, I opened one eye. And then shut it again. I swear I saw a pear with legs wearing my clothes and sporting my hair.

Curiosity creeped into my dressing room and forced my eyes into reality. Hmm. Not…bad. My heart stopped. I glanced over at my boot cut jeans. Relaxed in fit. I’m so sorry! Slowly I allowed myself to move around in the jeans. It did reveal that I had hips. Yet, it didn’t quite feel like a clown show…at all. I think….I like them! came the astonishing thought. What happens next, you'll never believe.

Only a minute before, I had detested the very jeans that my hands would not loosen their grip on. That is, until the woman told me how much change was due. Before my very eyes, my right hand released its grip on the jeans and reached into my bag, pulled out my wallet, and paid her! I walked out of the store with giddiness seeping out of me. Truly, it was a disease.

And, as I sit here in my skinny jeans (and loving them) I type this story of betrayal in my world of clothing sense. What will be next??? Am I an Eve, Simon Peter, or merely a learner of trends and fashion and former prejudiced Elizabeth Bennet?