I hate shopping for jeans. No, wait, let me restate that. I detest shopping for jeans. Or pants. Really, any kind of garment that has to fit around my lower body.

I have a small waist and more than ample booty and thighs.  Slap a short stature on top of that, and pant shopping is a recipe for disaster.  It’s downright impossible for me to find a pair of jeans that don’t make me want to wretch when I look in a mirror, which is why I have, like, four pairs of pants. Total.

It’s not often that I head out to shop for jeans, and come back with a huge body issue complex and a large vat of full-fat ice cream to drown my sorrows in.

I recently blew out the knees in my favorite, oldest pair of jeans. It was an extremely upsetting experience, and I tried to rationalize that I could still wear them, despite a hole the size of Alaska in the knees. Because they FIT, for goodness sake. If looking like a hobo would get me out of pants shopping for another month, so be it.

So, when they finally disintegrated into shards, I dragged my butt to the mall.

And then, I had a revelation.

I have the exact same experience every single time I go hunting for jeans. It always follows the same pattern, with almost always the same results.

I call it, The 7 Stages Of Pants Shopping. And it goes a little something like this:

Stage 1: Optimism

Because, look! It’s a line of jeans that boast a Flattering Look for EVERY SIZE!

Stage 2. Denial

Yes, I realize that I’m closer to the size of pants I wore while pregnant, but I decide to look for pants in the size I was when I got married anyway.

Stage 3. Frustration

I mean, c’mon. How is it that these “stretch” pants don’t even have enough give to get over my saddlebags? Who came up with “skinny” jeans in the first place, dammit!

Stage 4. Anger

See, now? Now I’m just full out pissed, because almost every single pair of pants I’ve tried on at this point fit in the legs and butt, but have a gap around my waist big enough to hold a small family of rabbits. And who is this tall? I could wear stilts and still not fit in to these!

Or, equally maddening but more humiliating, I’ve shimmied in to the jeans, but now fear I cannot get out of them.  Don’t worry, I’m about to get all Bruce Banner up in this dressing room and bust out of them any second.

Stage 5. Sadness

As I place that 20^th pair of jeans back in its hanger, I am mourning not only the dozens of cute pants that I’m not walking away with, but also the loss of my firm backside.

Stage 6. Ambivalence

After I calm down from my tantrum, I can walk out of the dressing room, arms filled with rejects of cool-looking, hip pants that could potentially bring my wardrobe up to date, and declare “I didn’t want these stupid jeans anyway.”

Stage 7. Acceptance

It’s just destined to be, I guess. I’ll just have to keep wearing the same ratty cargo capri pants circa 2003 until they rot.

And this, my friends, is why I refuse to go pants shopping unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’m currently looking for a support group. Preferably one that allows me to wear sweatpants to meetings.

I guess I really took for granted how much dancing twice a week kept me in shape.  Lately, I’m really feeling it, as my butt is getting bigger.

And before you get all “Oh, Gina, you are so full of it, you’re too hard on yourself, it can’t be that bad,”  let me give you a piece of evidence.

I can no longer fit in to my underwear.

UNDERWEAR.  That basic undergarment that is usually stretchy and forgiving now feels like a sausage casing.  One should not have seam lines on one’s body after taking one’s undies off.

That, my friends, is a sign that it’s time for me to get back in to shape.  But also, a sign that it’s probably time to get new big girl panties.

I’m a creature of habit.  If I find something that works in the Delicate Garment department, I buy it in bulk and stick with it.

I’ve been wearing the same kind of cotton Victoria Secret underwear for almost a decade.  They’ve changed their design around a bit though, and they’re not as “full coverage” as they used to be.  And for a while there, I was sporting their fancy-yet-functional line that had a nice mix of cotton and lace. Just enough to make me feel ladylike, but enough coverage to keep all my cellulite from spilling out of the leg holes.

Yes, I’m a full coverage kind of gal.  Granny panties all the way.  I used to hear an earful from my dancer friends in the dressing room as I’d change.  My underwear collection would make Betty White shudder.

But I can’t help it, I like to be comfortable. I cannot stand having my underwear ride up my cheeks.

Before you suggest I try a thong, Im’ma stop you right there.  Sure, they don’t give unflattering panty lines.  But the few times I’ve tried going with a thong, I spent the whole morning feeling like I needed to pick that fabric out of my butt crack.

That is not flattering behavior.  And my butt dimples showed right through my sturdiest jeans.  Plus, there was some chaffing.   Please don’t make me go back there.  I had enough Atomic Wedgies from my brothers to last me a lifetime, thankyouverymuch.

So, I’ve been sticking with the same rotation of underpants for years.  And it shows.  Some of them have holes.  Thankfully not in the crotch.  More in the section around the waistband.  The ever-expanding section.

Last fall, I tried unsuccessfully to purchase underwear in a package at Target.  Epic fail.  Ever want to feel like you grossly underestimate your girth?  Try buying panties in a plastic bag according to the size chart on the back.

Now that I’ve had to throw out yet a couple more pairs of old standbys, I’m in the market for new undergarments, lest I be forced to go commando.  No one needs to see that.

But I have some criteria:

• They have to cover my ass.
• They have to look like they were purchased in this century.
• They have to cover my ass crack.
• They cannot come up to my belly button, however.
• They shouldn’t cost more than my car payment.
• They should look like they belong to an adult, and not my preschooler.
• They should be girly enough to distinguish from my son’s, but not make me feel like I need to hide them from my son.

What’s a girl to do?

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