Fifty Things That Aren't My Fault Read online

  It isn’t as though the issue hasn’t come up lately. Ninety-nine percent of the blouses, tank tops, jackets, sweaters, wraps, and sweat shirts in my closet were bought because they’d be “perfect with jeans.” When none of the jeans fit, the whole wardrobe is useless. The jeans control everything. I stare at the lifeless stack. Of course I don’t have to wear jeans to the party. I could wear the long skirt or stretchy workout pants that have been making it possible for me to leave the house lately. But every woman knows that would be to admit defeat. That would be letting the blue jeans win.

  An hour later I march into the last place on earth a woman my age should go to buy blue jeans: a blue jean store. I’m unfazed by the 5,000 pairs of jeans lining the walls and stacked on the tables, which have intimidated me in the past. Not put off by the youth culture into which I have just stepped or the screaming music that surely is cranked up so loud so it will drown out the wails of parents when their children lead them to the cash register to pay $90 for faded-out pants with holes in them. Music that mostly keeps people my age out.

  Not today.

  Blue jeans belong to people my age, and I’ve come to claim what’s rightly mine. My generation made blue jeans cool. We made jeans essential. We were the founding mothers and fathers of the universe in which jeans now roam freely—the original laid-back, kicked-back, rebel-against-restrictions, “just wear jeans” people. I flash back to college, to the transformation I watched on the Diag of the University of Michigan, the place every student crossed and gathered every day. It was my freshman year—the year 12,000 U of M coeds ditched the nice preppy college skirts and button-down blouses our moms had just spent the summer buying, ironing, and packing. We ditched them and changed into jeans. Changed into different people. Changed into people who could say NO to all kinds of things, including skirts, blouses, underwear, and irons.

  Jeans were the uniform of awakening. They helped free the voices of some of us who had no idea we had anything to say. Even a shy girl from Midland, Michigan, who had never, ever rebelled against anything. Even if I still obeyed all the rules, even if I only actually watched the whole revolution from the side, jeans connected me to something beyond the safe bubble in which I grew up. They were the opposite of prim skirts. Jeans were loose and comfortable; they literally felt like women’s minds started to feel—less restricted, free to challenge rules, question norms, rebel against roles.

  Jeans leveled the playing field. Men and women wore the exact same ones. And because we did, jeans were honest. They didn’t send mixed messages, hurt, or make us feel bad about ourselves. Everyone had one pair of basically the same brand, style, and fit, two pairs at the most. It was unthinkable that there would be a different look or that anyone would ever outgrow the ones they already owned. Our jeans were made of denim that gently softened and shaped to the people who wore them, never insulted anyone by springing back to their original brand-new state. Faded denim was earned, not bought. Those sweet, forgiving, naturally faded pants. Those glory days of life before memory fibers.

  I sold my Econ 101 textbook back to the bookstore in my third week to buy my first pair. I bought jeans and flunked Econ. The jeans seemed way more relevant.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  I’m startled back to the present. I turn to face the salesperson standing next to me. She’s eighteen, I’m guessing, the exact age I was when I got my first pair of loose, liberating, life-changing college jeans.

  The jeans she’s wearing are shredded stretch denim, sort of like a half-body girdle with holes. Peeking out of the hole on her right thigh is a tattoo of what might be the Little Mermaid. Hot pink jewels form a cute, sparkly peace sign next to her crotch. Her shrink-wrapped denim ankles are planted in peekaboo, half-unlaced construction worker boots with four-inch heels. She looks free, but it’s unclear from what.

  How on earth did we get from me to her?

  How is it that as soon as unisex jeans went out of favor and companies started designing “women’s cut” versions, jeans became something many women couldn’t fit into? What happened to all those dreams on the Diag that turned my generation’s uniform of emancipation into this salesperson’s saucy denim girdle? How did the pants that leveled the playing field become another cause for tears in the dressing room or in front of closet mirrors? How did my generation let jeans, which were the definition of happy clothes, turn into something stacked up in our own closets that don’t even fit us?? I need answers. I need accountability.

  “Um . . . hello?? Are you looking for something?” the salesperson repeats.

  “I need some jeans,” I answer. Understatement of the century.

  “What size?” she asks. Insane question of the century.

  No turning back now. I’m full of granola and indignation. Absolutely no reason to not be 100 percent honest about my size.

  “I wear a size 8, 32, 14, 10, 6, or a 0,” I announce. “In some stores I’m a 000. Some manufacturers make their 10’s fit like 4’s, which might make me a 16. Some make their 12’s fit like 6’s, which would make me 9. However, a dozen different size 9’s can fit completely differently even if I’m having a ‘perfect size 9 day.’ In some jeans, I’m a 2. Once I was a 34. I might be a 7.”

  “Awesome,” she says. She kind of peeks around me, glances at my butt, grabs three pairs off a stack, and hands them to me. I look down at them in my hand without even unfolding them.

  “Do you have any jeans with zippers longer than two inches?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, never mind.” I hand the jeans back and move on.

  If the e-vite had said “just wear a swimsuit,” it would have been only slightly worse, I think while entering the next store, which has music and clothes more appropriate for my age. At least a swimsuit is a swimsuit. At least a different swimsuit isn’t required for every different occasion. Women’s jeans don’t only have to fit the body, they have to fit the event. Did the invitation’s instruction to “just wear jeans” mean elegant jeans? Dressy jeans? Casual jeans? Earthy jeans? Straight leg? Boot cut? Flare? High rise? Cropped? Skinny crop? Baggy crop? Tomgirl? Boyfriend? Dressy dark denim? Casual dark denim? Super-casual, baggy fit, distressed denim with fancy pumps? Stone-washed shredded denim with stiletto sandals? Super-thin, non-stretchy smooth denim with ankle booties? Faded denim leggings with flats?

  Maybe because I’m a driven member of the Blue Jean Generation, I have the will and stamina to persevere. I’ve watched my daughter give up in tears after trying on the first ten or fifteen pairs. But I march on . . . through this store . . . this mall . . . through another mall . . . through other department stores . . . specialty stores . . . shops for mature women . . . many, many, many dressing rooms . . .

  And finally . . . after what feels like a thousand failed tries . . . I pull on some jeans that sort of feel as if they could belong on me. As if they might actually fit. I squint into the mirror in disbelief. I twist and peer at myself from every angle. Do they actually fit my body, or do they merely fit how desperate I am to go home and put on sweat pants? Am I so beaten down that I’ll take anything? Have I looked at myself in so many pairs of bad jeans today that I’m incapable of seeing what’s wrong with this picture, or is there nothing wrong? The zipper zips . . . the button buttons . . . nothing hurts . . . They might be okay, I think. They might even be good. I stand back from the mirror. Sort of casual, sort of dressy—a bold statement of ambiguity that’s a perfect match for the contradictory feelings I have when I peek at the price tag and see that I’ll be paying $145 for them.

  I feel good enough that I open the door to the dressing room and let the salesperson see them on me. Good enough that I ask her to help me find pieces to complete the look for my upcoming party. We choose an arty tunic that hits mid-thigh and lovely suede boots that come to the top of my calf, so only seven vertical inches of denim are actually visible on either leg. It’s summer in Los Ang
eles, but in a city that both reveres edgy fashion and prays for rain, a woman wearing boots on a hundred-degree July day can be seen as totally hip or totally hopeful, not necessarily one who’s trying to cover anything.

  I drive home exhausted and conflicted, but also triumphant. I put my new jeans on top of the stack in my closet. I’ll never get rid of them, even if the day comes when they’re too big or too small. I step back to admire what I’ve accomplished. All the blouses, tank tops, jackets, sweaters, wraps, and sweat shirts make sense again. All the things I’ve pledged to sort and unload suddenly have purpose and possibility because they’re “perfect with jeans” and I own jeans that fit. Jeans that will not only get me to the party in two days, but give me a great big respite from sorting out the rest of my closet for a long time to come.

  I feel a familiar little rush of freshman year. Feel a little bit liberated.

  Once again, my blue jeans have set me free.

  FIVE MORE REASONS I DIDN’T EXERCISE TODAY

  I’m afraid I’ll look silly.

  I’m afraid I’ll look weak.

  I’m afraid I’ll look old.

  I’m afraid I’ll look as if I need to exercise.

  I’m afraid I’ll quit.

  20.

  THE ORGANIZER

  A silent cheer to myself as the cab pulls up to my parents’ house in Florida. “I’m going in!” It’s 9:00 p.m., Sunday night. Mom and Dad have been asking me to help them reorganize and pitch, and I’m happy to do it. One full week of sorting linen closets, kitchen cupboards, and bathroom cabinets! Setting up systems for bills and correspondence! Braving storage boxes full of ancient travel guides and souvenirs! Separating true keepsakes from “why on earth are we still keeping these?” I’ll work ten hours a day, if that’s what it takes! I’m marching in as the adult—with energy, focus, and the cool, clear, decision-making skills it’s possible to have when it’s someone’s mess besides mine.

  “Welcome, sweetie!” Mom and Dad greet me at the door with beaming smiles and warm hugs. “We’re so happy you’re here!”

  “Me too,” I say. “I have big plans for this visit!”

  “Us too!” Mom answers as I pull my suitcase in the door. “Our dear friends Kirsten and Gene are stopping over for breakfast tomorrow. They can’t wait to see you! Then Dad made reservations at the cute seafood place you love for lunch, and there’s a wonderful new tropical plant exhibit we want to take you to before dinner!”

  “But I came to help!” I interject.

  “Oh, and thank heavens for that. We need your help!” Dad says.

  “So much to do here!” Mom echoes.

  “Okay then,” I say, “Tuesday! First thing Tuesday, I’ll—”

  “Mom has both of you signed up for a stretch class Tuesday,” Dad interrupts, “and there’s a ball game on TV we can watch in the afternoon!”

  I’ve been here three minutes. Two days are already gone. “Okay,” I say with all my adultness. “Starting Wednesday, I’m tackling all those projects you’ve said you wanted to do!”

  Mom pulls the calendar off the wall. “Dad has a periodontist appointment we were hoping you could take him to Wednesday morning,” she notes, “and then we have matinee tickets for the tango troupe that’s in town!”

  “Thursday?” I try weakly.

  “Thursday, Friday, and Saturday are pretty full. Then Sunday’s church and lunch afterward, and then you’ll have to pack to fly back on Monday!” Mom wraps her arms around me in a hug. “Your whole visit will be over!”

  “But I came to help!” I try.

  “Oh, and thank heavens for that. We need your help!” Dad says, joining the hug from the other side.

  “So much to do here!” Mom echoes, squeezing more tightly. I’m an actual human panini now. Me and my big agenda squashed between layers of parents. Now I’ll not only need to reorganize their whole house, I’ll need to do it in between all the activities they so sweetly planned. Somehow stuff my agenda into their agenda. I wiggle out of the middle. “I love you, Mom and Dad,” I say, “but we should get to bed. Big day tomorrow!”

  Big, big day, I think, pulling my suitcase to the guest room. But I’m up to the job. I know how to operate in Mom Mode. I did it for my child, I can do it for my parents. Break tasks into tiny goals that I can achieve while they do complicated things like put on socks and shoes. Make use of every second of their naptimes! And most important . . . wake up two hours before they do!

  Day 1: 5:00 a.m.

  I quietly lift one piece of paper off one stack on the kitchen counter when . . .

  “Sweetie! Why are you up so early?!” Mom asks, walking into the kitchen.

  I drop the papers, startled, and turn my back to the counter to face her.

  “Why are you up so early?” I ask.

  “I wanted to make sure I set the coffeemaker on auto,” she says.

  “It’s on, Mom. See the little red button? It’s all set! Go back to bed!” I say, trying to shoo her out.

  “Why are you up so early?” she asks again, more awake this time.

  “I . . . um . . . just thought I’d straighten things up a little in here,” I answer.

  “What things?” Mom asks, suddenly looking very wide awake.

  “Why are you two up so early?” Dad asks, marching into the kitchen.

  “She’s straightening things up on the counter!” Mom announces.

  “What things?” Dad asks, his wide-awake eyes scanning the countertop.

  “Just a few . . . Why are you up so early, Dad?” I ask, more than a little frustrated at having been caught in the act of trying to help.

  “We like everything on the counter right where it is,” Dad says.

  “It’s five in the morning! Let’s talk later! Go back to bed!” I say.

  “We can’t go back to bed unless you go back to bed so we’ll know you aren’t trying to straighten anything up!” Mom says.

  “Fine! We’re all wide awake now!” I say. “I was simply going to pull your bills out of this pile by your phone and make folders for them in your office.”

  “We always keep our bills on the counter,” Mom says firmly.

  “I thought I could at least toss out the junk mail that’s in the same pile,” I suggest.

  “We need to open all those before we toss them because the mail carrier went to all the trouble to deliver them,” Dad answers.

  “Also we reuse the envelopes,” Mom adds.

  “How about if I just get rid of old newspapers?” I ask, picking up a small stack.

  “No! Those might have articles we might need to clip for people!”

  “How about a used sticky note??” I ask, picking one off the counter and holding it in the air. “Can I throw out one used sticky note with a grocery list from last Thanksgiving?!”

  “No! I wrote the Holecs’ new address on the back of that!” Mom says, plucking it from my hand.

  “You use the backs of sticky notes??”

  “You don’t use the backs of sticky notes??”

  I raise a mangled piece of wire in the air. “Here!” I say. “One stretched-out paper clip! Can we get rid of one stretched-out paperclip??”

  Mom and Dad stare at me as though I’ve lost my mind, which I sort of have at 5:15 a.m.

  “Don’t be silly, honey,” Dad says. “We keep the stretched-out ones in case we need something really tiny to poke a hole in something.”

  “I can’t do this without coffee,” I say, walking to the machine to push the on button.

  “No!” Mom rushes to stop me. “It’s all set for auto! See the little red light? We have to wait for the auto start!”

  This launches a ten-minute search for the coffeemaker manual so I can prove it’s okay to override the auto button . . . which launches a discussion of how happy I�
�d be to set up a nice organized file of appliance manuals . . . which launches a review of how much they prefer their system of keeping appliance manuals in random drawers throughout the house . . . which launches absolutely nothing that was on my list for Day 1.

  Day 2: Naptime

  “How long do you think you’ll be sleeping?” I ask Mom as she and Dad head to their room for a late morning rest.

  “No more than an hour,” Mom answers. “You should take a nap, too!”

  “Great idea!” I say.

  I wait for the sound of their door to close, then spring into action. I bolt down the hall to their tiny, packed home office, the area they’ve said is most overwhelming to them . . . calculate what’s needed to do a complete overhaul . . . rush to the office supply store . . . zoom through it with my list . . . rush back with $500 of pristine new file folders, pens, letter trays, a file cabinet, matching wastebaskets, and a bookshelf to assemble . . . stagger to the front door with the first load from the trunk of the car when . . .

  “I thought you were taking a nap!” Dad says, standing in the open front door.

  “Um . . . I just ran out to . . .” I begin.

  “What happened to your nap?” Mom asks, appearing next to Dad.

  “I wanted to get started on your office and . . . what happened to your naps?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong with our office?” Mom asks.

  “I hope you didn’t buy anything new!” Dad says, peering suspiciously at the bags in my arms. “We want to get rid of stuff!”

  “The last thing we need is more stuff!” Mom chimes.

  “I picked up a few things that will help you get rid of stuff! You just need some new systems, new supplies, and places to put things,” I offer, trying to not sag under the weight of the bags in my arms.