When it comes to jeans, everyone has fit issues…or so I discovered in a highly unscientific pool of people I know. My size 0 personal trainer revealed that most jeans cut across her “fat place” (I think it’s called skin), and my adorable client groaned about his 30-inch inseam that forces him to shorten every pair he buys. I possess the kind of backside songs are written about, can only wear jeans designed by Beyonce even though I’m Caucasian. Lucky, maybe, but also increases the likelihood that other jeans will look ridiculous on my butt unless I go three sizes larger, resulting in a midsection gap that will make people wonder if I am actually behind curtains.
As a result, I haven’t worn jeans much since the days of faded, thrashed seat sat that was the grunge sartorial rebellion. My skinny jeans efforts since then have failed, including shopping at my lowest photo-shoot weight (good for my ego but terrible for my closet), or trying on dubious micro-rinses (disastrous for both my ego and closet). Trying on jeans in Beverly Hills, alongside food-averse whippet-shaped women loudly debating whether to stick with a size 24 waist or try the children’s section, adds to the fun.
I’ve switched to altering my jeans. At only a mild expense, it makes my butt and waist look so cute and a man in an airport last week actually tripped into a trash can, ogling me as I passed. Many women have asked where I’ve bought my jeans, they fit so dreamily. Now I am the proud owner of a dozen custom-fit jeans, and they haven’t transformed my look so much as obliterated hassle. I have booty, for once for which I’m not apologizing. Baggy jeans? Not a chance. Alterations, problem solved.