My new jeans are perfectly pale, the pastel soft hue of the Mediterranean at dusk. They are made of some kind of uber soft lightly brushed denim and are deliciously comfortable. They sit in the perfect place between my knicker line and my bellybutton. They don't pinch. They caress my buttocks softly like a sensitive lover. They look great with my yellow wellies, naturally.
Friends who know me well will be surprised by this admission. I've never been a jeans and tops kind of girl, not since I was a teenager. It pays to know your assets and I've always have a cracking pair of pins. Never one to hide my light under a bushel I have paraded these shamelessly. Tights in the winter and bare legs in summer. I love a dress. A single, ultimately versatile piece of clothing. What could be easier? I find women who claim to hate dresses odd creatures, and I resent the assumption that if you wear a lot of dresses you are somehow less thrusting, less serious. A dress can be the ultimate weapon; the right dress makes everything possible. But I digress. The point is that in the last decade I have rarely been seen in jeans, especially not sensible, medium rise, mummy jeans. But there is absolutely no way that you can breastfeed in a dress, unless it's some kind of maternity number. You cannot pull your dress up to your chest and whop out a boob. It's just not the done thing. And pulling your neckline down to feed would look equally odd. No, I have discovered that you simply don’t want to be wearing a dress if you are regularly breastfeeding your baby.
My many dresses droop forlornly on their hangers like flags on a windless day. They know this is not their time. Instead I have found myself wearing the same pair of jeans on a daily basis, chucked on with wellies and mac ready for bracing park walks. I had to bite the bullet and admit the truth. It was time to buy a pair of mummy jeans.

Feeling a little like Goldilocks I trawled the rails of sale jeans. These too small, those too large. These too trashy, those too frumpy. And then I saw them. A pair of pale blue jeans that looked perfect. I read the label; size 10, medium rise, skinny jeans. Not uber tight, just slim. I felt the cotton. Soft. I considered the colour. Yes they were pale, and therefore possibly not the most practical shade. And yet somehow they were. I took them to the changing room, and as the smooth denim slid silkily onto my thighs I was suddenly transformed into Cinderella. You will go to the ball. You will be a milf.
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