Call me "Mom"

That's it. I am done. I am so over low-rise jeans that you can slap some rib-huggers on me and call me "Momma." I won't mind, I swear.

Evidence Item #1: The other day when I was trying to put air in my tires with non-working air hoses, one of the chief things irritating me, beyond having to drive around in a death-on-4-wheels automobile, was the fact that I knew my ass was hanging out of my jeans as I squatted beside my car.

Here's the scene: I drop two quarters in the machine, which is supposed to give me three minutes of air. I hustle around the car connecting the hose to the tires and waiting for the air compressor to kick on as I feel a cold breeze where there should not be a breeze. I become aware that my booty is bulging out the top of my jeans for all to see. But damn it, I am risking life and limb by driving on underinflated tires! So I continue to squat and swear, praying that no one I know is driving by to see my special show as I try to get up to 29 PSI.

Evidence Item #2: I have freakishly short legs. Though I am 5 foot 8, I have a 28 inch inseam. That is not a typo. 28 inch. 2 legal-sized sheets, taped together, that equals how long my legs are. I do not need low-cut jeans to help draw attention to this. Good lord, when will this suffering end?

Evidence Item #3: I was picking up my dry cleaning at the strip mall the other day. A little girl, maybe 4 years old, was playing on the floor at the cell phone store next door with her cute little fashionable jeans on. Her back was to the window, and her little 4-year-old buttcrack was clearly visible to the whole world.

People! Stop this madness! Do I need to remind anyone that there are really good reasons that your 4-year-old should not be dressed like a tiny stripper? I mean, yuk. Give the little girl some pants she can bend over in without looking like a plumber, please.

Evidence Item #4: I am going to have to pussyfoot around this one, lest anyone recognize themselves...I was at a group function. A certain lovely young friend was there. She happens to be a bit overweight. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. Normally, this would not be a problem, but her very low-rise jeans revealed waaay too much flesh squeezed above the top seam and below her now-hiked-up shirt. It was, to put it mildly, off-putting.

Bring on the mom jeans. I have one pair and they have become my best friends. I don't care if I look like Urkel. As long as my rear end stays out of the breeze and well out of sight, I am happy.

Next week's subject: why pantyhose with sandals rock.