An Open Letter To The Poor Woman Who Tried To Sell Me Jeans

Retail therapy used to be the quick fix for anything. I would try on formal dresses with no occasion to wear them. I would tote handbags around the store with the price tag folded inside just to feel like I had a new purse. And the shoes! Oh, don't even get me started on the shoes. If you're like me, you know that nothing makes you feel more captivating and powerful than a beautiful shoe. I loved retail therapy. I loved shopping.

I hate it now.

I went into your store to buy jeans. And 104 pairs later I emerged from the dressing room to return them to you, and after inquiring what was wrong with them in front of a male customer, you proceeded to bring me more. More jeans that made my hips look wider. More denim that made my thighs look fatter. More materialistic items that made me feel inferior. Inadequate. Downright repulsive. 

I went into your store to buy jeans. But I left your store in tears.

I went into your store to buy jeans. But I didn't tell you I was there to buy jeans because I didn't want you to know. Because when salesladies know I'm in a store to buy jeans, they don't shut up. They don't stop bringing me things. They don't listen to what I'm saying because they've already moved on to the next pair of pants they're going to bring me. So here's the deal.

Jeans don't fit me.

By society's definition, I am the perfect woman. I have a full feminine figure with an itty-bitty waist. But I can't feel perfect because by society's standards, I'm the ugliest woman alive. I have a 29 inch inseam, and even your short jeans (or petite jeans, if you're trying not to offend) fit me like footie pajamas. If I try on a pair of jeans that fit my hips, the waistband is so huge I have to pay an extra fifteen dollars to have it taken in. If the jeans fit my waist, one of two things is wrong with the seat: it's either so tight you can see every line and crease in my underwear, or the zipper doesn't plunge low enough to even get the unforgiving denim over my butt.

You then proceeded to tell me that those were your "curvy" jeans, and offered to order me the "ultra-curvy" pair because you didn't carry that style in the store. Because nothing says "you're fat," and "you don't belong here," like "I don't even carry your size/style in the store."

Then I checked the price tag. You kept handing me 120 dollar jeans. But I'd never pay that because I have to pay an extra 50 to have them altered. Shoot, I could buy some denim and make my own stupid jeans for less than $120. That's an awful lot of money to charge someone who isn't in love with your jeans, and I don't even like them. They really aren't that special. If you can make me a pair of jeans that fit me with no required alterations, I'd drop $120 in a heartbeat. But I haven't found a store to do it yet.

You see, you label jeans that fit models "slim," when you label jeans for me "curvy." I used to think curvy was an inaccurate label; that it was the modest way to say "fat." But it isn't. Curvy is a good thing. Men like curvy. Women should, too. It's the "slim" label that's the problem, because it implies that curvy women cannot also be slim. And we believe it.

Curvy women can be slim. We are slim. And you can label us with whatever word you want, but we are stunning. 

Curvy women are true art forms. The craftsmanship of our frame and the architecture of our physique shouldn't make sense. Our weight is not distributed evenly. And you don't have to be a rocket scientist to know that scales only balance out when weight is even on both sides. Curvy women shouldn't even be able to balance. But here we are...walking, thinking, reading, dancing, running, cooking, working, and loving. We are mysterious creatures. We are extraordinary. But instead, we feel like a freak of nature. Everyone talks about how beautiful and exquisite we are, but how can we feel that way when not a single piece of fabric fits our "magnificent" body?

My waist is a size 2. And I know it is, because all my skirts are a size 2. But my jeans are a size 6-8, because that's what my hips need. I buy jeans in a size 8, take in the waist several inches, and then hem the pant legs to a 29 inch inseam. I also take in the fabric at the knee, because all my weight is carried in my hips and upper thighs, so my bootcut jeans look like straight-leg pants after the initial alteration. I need an extra alteration to give me my shape back.

I could've answered what was wrong with those jeans so you wouldn't bring me more, but I didn't have the time. You didn't either. I could've told you that my waist is too small, that my hips are too wide, that my thighs are too fat. But that would imply that there's something wrong with me. And there isn't. There isn't anything wrong with your jeans either. It's just that we aren't a good fit.

So stop bringing me more jeans. Let me find them. Let me try them on. Let me pinch them in certain areas and determine if the price tag is worth it prior to the 4 alterations I'll have to make that I don't want you to know about. Because no one knows my body better than me, and no one knows how to make me feel worse about it than everyone else.

And that's not fair to me. Because I am beautiful. 

Sincerely,

The "Perfect" Girl In Desperate Need Of A Pair Of Pants