Yesterday, the situation in my house got to levels that were completely unbearable, and I was forced to do something about it. I realized that my favorite pair of trousers was almost completely worn through at the seams (which is completely reasonable, considering they're almost five years old and I wear them once or twice a week), and the unthinkable occurred:

My favorite jeans broke in the gluteal region.

It was a sad day. I went to my local store to look at a new pair, but they were closed, so I had to stop when I went to my voice lesson in Albuquerque. I went to the Target, figuring I wouldn't find anything at all, since I only had thirty minutes or so in which to look.

I was wrong. There were six acceptable pairs of pants in my size and for a reasonable price. Six. That's like losing your keys and finding out that you have a whole bunch of spares and each is on a magical key ring.

Except for the trying-them-on part. That part is not magical.

So I go into the dressing room, and I'm filled with dread because the last time I bought jeans was just under two years ago, and it was a traumatic experience. I tried on jeans at five different stores, not finding any with an adult-appropriate rise (I do like them to cover my entire butt-crack, thank you very much), and ended up crying in a dressing room at Kmart and buying four pairs of the dreaded Mom Jeans because, first of all, they're comfortable as all get-out, and second of all, they were $15 apiece, and who can turn down comfy $15 jeans? Not me, man.

They look atrocious, though, so I have just been wearing my old jeans and hoping that the Mom ones will just mysteriously look better someday when I pull them on. They never do. I die a little inside each time I try them out. Sometimes I tuck in a t-shirt and laugh a little, but then I realize that I'm standing around in a pair of Mom Jeans that go up to my tatas, laughing at myself, and that this behavior might be a little crazy.

I still usually giggle a little more, anyway. It's pretty freaking funny.

Without my favorite trousers and jeans, though, I am in big trouble. Thus the need for a try-on.

So I go into the dressing room, after getting my tag which says, "6," which I knew must be a sign because that's exactly how many I had and that's the maximum, and I prepare myself.

First, I look at my old pants. I had worn the Mom Jeans (albeit under a big old shirt that covered most of the momliness), so I had a comparison for the new jeans. I looked at the front, which was terrifying enough, but then I looked at the back. Those of you who've worn Mom Jeans can testify to the horrendous things they do to your butt. It's not right. No one should ever have to confront the sights I saw yesterday afternoon. <Shudder>

I then took off the Momtasticness and bemoaned the state of my thighs for a minute, then lifted up my shirt a bit and squeezed the fat on my stomach and felt properly disgusted with myself for eating cake/meat/cheese/cookies, etc. Then I sighed a little bit and decided I needed to do some more stomach-reducing exercises.

Then it was time for the pants try-on. I started with the pair I liked the least. Now, mind you, these pants were all the same brand, and ostensibly the same size, but asking for standardized sizes at Target is like asking my Mom to stop making those delicious hamburger patties encrusted with cracker crumbs and pan-fried to delicious crispy goodness and then served with a truckload of ketchup. It's just not going to happen.

Mmmmm. Food. 

Anyway, the first pair fit, but it was a disaster. They didn't cover my underpants, and they were so low as to be almost offensive. I like a little more coverage for my bits. Therefore, I left them on a little while, so I could feel properly digested with my sad, sad lack of butt and ample quantities of, well, everything else.

Time for pair two.

Pair two fit, along with the rest of the pants. What? Now, they were all way lower than I've gotten used to, and I may need to trade in my ginormous underpants for ones that don't go all the way up to my belly button (don't judge…coverage is your friend), but at least they all went on and zipped up. It was just the rise issue again.

Am I crazy, or did they used to have pants that covered your butt crack and not your belly button? I seem to remember that being the case. I feel like the two years of Mom Jeans has ruined me for all other jeans. Except for my favorite jeans, which are at least six years old and purchased on clearance for a mere $8 and I've never found another pair. Sad, sad, sad.

I can patch the butt, but then they'll be all scratchy and I just can't deal.

So I ended up with a pair of dark wash jeans that fits okay but feels a lot lower than I'm used to, a pair of jeans that has fading and whiskering on it, which I never would've bought except for the fact that it does miraculous things to my butt (still lower than I'm used to), and a pair of black trousers which is, amazingly, not too short and not too low.

Now I'm all set for a couple of years, at least.

Unless I'm too scared to wear them and they stay in the drawer, mating with my Mom Jeans and creating a hybrid jean that makes my butt look great AND covers all of my belly junk with a thick, thick layer of sweet, sweet fabric.

Let me have my dream.