I like to call it forty-two-plus because of the magical qualities of that number, and the ability that a plus has to disguise the actual embarrassing number.
I wasn't even aware until I did a closet clean out and couldn't let go of a single pair - regardless of the supernatural effort it would take to get into some of them (especially if I carry on with the cocktail session I am currently enjoying poolside in honour of the extra year of aging I have achieved recently).
How can forty-two-plus pairs of jeans not double up? There is everything from traditional blue to patterned with roses; everything from white to black with forays into several coloured spectrums; skin-tight to flowing and flared; pristine to ripped by design or ripped by love.
But. I do have a weird jeans quirk. I don't like anyone seeing the bits. The girly bits. The feminine 'y'. You will never—unless some miracle of dieting that actually works happens—see me with jeans and shirts or t-shirts tucked into the waist. In this and the following few posts, I am displaying ways in which I cover up. This is the 'long top' option. More vital-hiding strategies will follow.
I'm not going to harp on about my appalling blogging record lately. I have done that too much. But I do find it strange that I had more to say when I said it more often than now when I hardly speak. Turns out a voice needs to be used to stay useful.
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