Blame It On The Jeans

By S.D. Craig
I’m here to tell you, I am all for making stretch a capital letter word in the Webster’s Dictionary.

I bought a few pairs of jeans recently, and when I went back to exchange a sweater, I decided on that pair of stretch jeans (fits tight all the way down to the ankles kind) I’d tried on before, after all.

Only a woman could have designed these.  And bless her, please, for me.

I love these stretchy things.  Wish I’d have bought every pair they had now that I’m two thousand miles away from Dress Barn.  These pants, they move when I move (and don’t cut off circulation to vital organs, muscles, and bones), give when I squat to pick up the thousand things I drop, stretch when I want them to stretch (after a big meal or when I bend to get in those damn paddleboats and the like.

Not only that, they make a woman feel sexy.  At least, they do me.  I’ve even taken to not wearing such long tunic tops with them now.  I went out last week and bought five of the same stretchy ribbed sleeveless tops, clingy and all.  My husband loves them with the stretch jeans.  And the curves.  Sigh.  I need to marry that man all over again.

I’m also thinking of inventing jeans (let’s go the other direction) that constrict upon command for ex-wives.  We could have a remote control to do our damage, don’t ya think?  A grand idea!  Men shouldn’t be the only ones who know how to run those things (I mean the remotes, not the ex-wives).

Remember the old days, back when Urban Cowboy hit the scene?  Well, women had to jump off the roof to get into their jeans then.  And not only that, we had to use a pair of pliers to zip the suckers up.  Why ever did we think that was cool, or comfortable?  I know it was ‘in’.  In respect of retrospect, being ‘in’ has never felt that great, has it?  Not to us curvy women, anyhow.

I look at mini skirts (how do they sit down without showing the world their wares?) and evening dresses slit to heaven and back.  My mind is racing.  How do they work, how are you a lady when you wear these things?  I know I’m curious; I can’t help it.  I need to rationalize my moves before I find I’m out somewhere one night, making an idiot of myself.

I picture it like this:

“Oh, did you see Sherri at Sizzler last night?  Whatever possessed her to come out of the house wearing that leopard print get-up, tighter than saran wrap on a meatloaf?  Looked like she left her underclothes at home, didn’t it?”

“I heard she just plumb forgot ’em.  Once she became a writer, she lost her mind.  And her taste.”

Do the stars ever say under their breath, “Oh shit, I forgot my panties and my skirt’s got an opening wider than the Colorado River?”  I doubt it.  But I would.

With the ACM Awards ready to air on TV tonight, it brings to mind the Academy Awards show I was witness to recently.  God, what were those women thinking?  I’m supposing that when you’re that rich, you have people who tell you what looks good and what doesn’t, what to buy, have made, and so on.  Well, those folks must’ve all been on vacation, then.

I’ve never seen such an array of strapless-type dresses on women who had nothing to hold them up.  Now, forgive me, those of you less well-endowed, but you gotta know your strengths as a woman.  If you’ve got the legs instead of the bust line, then show those off instead.  It’s not that hard to figure out.

I can honestly say the prettiest one there was Ashley Judd in her lavender confection of (what I call) a ball-gown.  She had a perfect color for her complexion and a perfect fit.  She was a vision.  Most of the rest, I could pass by easy, if I’d been a man.  A real man.

I say play your best assets as they lie.  Show off those long, tan legs with a skirt slit to heaven, if you’re brave.  Show off that chest of yours with the neckline diving to your bellybutton, I don’t care.  I say, if you’ve got it, girl, flaunt it.

If it feels strange at first, flaunt it around the house.  You’ll get used to it.  Once I wore a halter top to a Chinese restaurant in Athens, GA.  I think those men are still trying to recover, but I tell you, my husband is still amazed at the service we got.  The waiters were all over the table, all night.  I wasn’t thin or a perfect size ten, mind you.  But voluptuous is something men really do admire.  Remember Marilyn?

I knew that by the end of our meal, though I spent a lot of time blushing and feeling fidgety, it was an experience I’d never forget.  I felt like a real woman that night.  Damn.

I blame it on the jeans.  Or, er, maybe, the genes.

About the writer:

SD Craig is a freelance writer and editor of and was given the nickname “Chatterbox” by fellow writers. At age fifty, Craigs Southern flair and sense of humor give her plenty to write about with a rapier wit and a wacky outlook. Her articles on body image (her biggest passion), marriage/divorce and relationships, family, friends, career issues, computers, the Internet, horses, baseball, movie reviews and writing tips remind one of Erma Bombeck or Dave Barry. A freelance writer who once juggled five columns then got real, Craig welcomes your e-mails and feedback on her articles. Drop her a hello at or stop by

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