So here's the thing: my hips don't lie. Thanks to my Latina heritage, I have always been caderona, or hippy. When I was in high school, this was brought to my attention (too) often by my mom, who, when I would grab an extra tamale or enchilada at a family get-together, would say, "Oooh mija... past your lips, onto your hips!"
But now that my mom's not around, I am reminded of my child rearin' hips every time I find myself walking down Mission Street, when various men inevitably shout things like "Girl, you got booty for DAAAAYZ!" or "Daaaamn! That's some BOOTY!" Or, my personal favorite, "Hey! Hey you! Booty girl! Hey Big Booty girl... can I have your number?" (Nothing like flattery to get to a woman.)
As any fellow booty girl will tell you, shopping for jeans is the absolute worst. I think it's safe to say that it is my version of hell, really. I have spent many an hour in a badly-lit fitting room (why does the lighting in fitting rooms somehow manage to exacerbate every roll and cellulite dimple that exists on one's body??), with a pile of denim at my side, repeatedly trying on jeans while fighting to hold back tears because they are simply. not. working.
These don't go over my hips. These don't zip. These give me muffin top. These are too loose on the waist but too tight on the hips. Get me out of this godforsaken fitting room before I light this store on fire!
A couple of months ago, I went through an experience like this but managed to emerge from Nordstrom Rack victorious: with a new pair of Seven jeans that fit and that made me happy. My feelings of contentment were short-lived, however. Because a couple of weeks later, the inseam on the left inner-thigh burst open and I had to take them to a tailor to get patched. This was rock bottom for me. Never have I felt like such a fatty in my whole life.
Now, 6 weeks into Weight Watchers, I have lost 11.4 pounds. The jeans with the patch on the inner thigh? I can't even wear them anymore because they are too big and they slide off my truthful hips.
Sometime within the next week, I will return to Nordstrom Rack, and I will try on more smaller-sized jeans. And while I know the experience won't exactly be pleasant, I'm sure I won't cry or have fantasies of arson.
And I'm even surer that the men on Mission won't stop calling me Booty girl anytime soon. Some things just don't change.