“mom jeans”
22 July 2009
What’s this shit about “mom jeans?” The President supposedly wore some while he tossed a game opening pitch last week. From what I read, they are unflattering jeans. Fashion critics were aghast because Obama could’ve worn something more snug, showing off his fit bod.
If I were a mom, I’d be really pissed. I happen to be married to one, and I’m still pissed. This is another sign of the apocalypse. Let’s all diss on moms. Let’s diss on their “frumpy” attire. Let’s reward their role of furthering life on the planet by making fun of their bodies and fashion sense–as if the trials of childbirth were not challenging enough. Let’s just keep on protecting the idea that Pamela Anderson jeans are the only way to go–and apparently, that goes for men too. No thanks. Obama, I’m glad you stated you go for comfort. Room for our buddies to breathe is paramount.
We are no longer life forms; we are sex machines. We have created the standard on the world wide web, in the fashion mags, on TV, movies, ad infinitum. We are to be athletic, proportioned–or with breasts so big we’re in danger of needing lower back surgery. It’s about time someone reminds people about this fact: Sex appeal comes from within. It is the secret recipe out of which our hearts and minds interpret our experience.
I’ve met sexy fat people, sexy skinny people, and sexy in between people. The unifying principle was a confidence transmitted in the subtle realm. It is an it, that people possess. And it, is always in the eye of the beholder. Never forget, Another person’s trash is another person’s treasure.
This is not a rant against aesthetics and a healthy looking body, I think we’re all attracted to health; go ahead and enjoy a well-sculpted frame. I just want to offer a plea for a broader perspective in what it is that turns us on. There is a whole package that needs to be assessed.
To the women wearing “mom jeans”… I think you’re hot. There’s nothing sexier than breasts engorged with milk under a spit-up stained shirt. I know you didn’t have time to take a shower because the kids didn’t take a nap today, and I want you to know, I crave your womanly stink. I even love your sleep-deprived angry vibe. You want some relief. You want that tension gone… I’m your Huckleberry.
