Lord of the Denim - An Adventure

I have been going to The Gap for over ten months trying to find a pair of jeans since the jeans I bought during the still hefty phase of post pregnancy were ill fitting. Luckily for me, I did manage to fit in my pre-pregnancy Banana Republic jeans. Mind you, nothing else pre-pregnancy without a muffin top. I don't get it either. I have been wearing these jeans religiously for ten months every jean day work Friday and the occasional weekend day. Which is fine, but I have been visiting The Gap approximately twice a month during this time searching for another pair. And much like Frodo's ring search, it has been an utterly tiring endeavor (but not with the homoerotic undertones). Now, I am sure you are probably saying to yourself, doesn't this girl know there are stores other than The Gap that sell jeans? And yes, this girl does, but read yesterday post about lacking a girl gene for clarification. Me no likey to shop. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I found pair to my liking, long enough and on sale for $29.99. Ca-ching! Hit the denim trifecta, anyone? I rushed to a sales person and said "Hi, can you put this on hold for me; I just need to run upstairs to my office to get something I need to return. Thanks." Upstairs I go, not believing that after an epic 300 day search, denim was found. At the counter, I informed the girl that the jeans behind her were mine, and I had a return. Gap girl says "Thirty dollars" and I am all "Aren't these jeans on sale?" "Not these". Oh my god, what to do. Not on sale? So the mental debate "Okay maybe they aren't on sale but you like them." "Yeah, I do like them, and it has been a long hunt." "You should totally buy them, forget the denim trifecta." And I did. You know why? Because I am wacky like that. Dressing this morning, I could feel the happiness well for the inaugural jeans wear. Will someone compliment me? Will John like my ass in them? Will Owen drool or vomit on them first? Frantically, I remove them from the bag, rip of tags, look down and say "Muthafarka." Why? Because there on the tag is a number, and that number is not mine, it is a "6". A six. I had got the wrong jeans, and the ones in my hands were calling me fat. As I stepped into B&R jeans for the fortieth week in a row, with a return to make, there was sadness, maybe even a tear. The good news is the jeans were still on hold - for Sandra, and they were in fact on sale. I knew it, bitch.