Skinny Jeans

To my total horror, yesterday I discovered (another) patch of gray hair on my scalp. In a frantic attempt to make myself feel better about the process of growing older, I headed straight to Forever 21, a mall clothing store whose name evokes the Fountain of Youth.

I wasn't two steps inside the establishment when I was accosted by a sneering teenager.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a way that implied that I was in a place where I didn't belong.

"I'm looking for something called skinny jeans," I told the girl, with an air of confidence that I didn't know I had.

The teen rolled her eyes. "That's all we carry," she said, and walked away.

Rejoicing, I grabbed one of everything.

Once inside the dressing room, I realized that I had been bamboozled. Skinny jeans are really just uncomfortable leggings.

"These are no good," I told the sales girl, passing a thick stack of pants through the dressing room curtain. Something about the last pair of jeans, however, caught my eye. At the last second, I snatched them back.

"Now we're talking," I said to myself as I slipped the pants on and admired myself in the mirror.

A few minutes later, the sales clerk tapped on the curtain. "Do you need anything?" she asked.

I drew back the curtain and smiled broadly.

The teenager bit her lower lip and shook her head.

"Have you tried Anne Taylor Loft?" she asked me.

She might as well have said 'Coldwater Creek.'

"That's an old lady store," I hissed.

I forgot to mention that all four of my children were in the dressing room with me at the time.

The teenager shrugged her shoulders. "Do what you want," she advised, "But I think you should shop around."

As much as I respected the teen's honesty, on the way home, I started to wish bad things upon her.

Last night, I prayed that when she grows up, she'll have triplets.