When I'm out shopping for jeans, I look into you, mirror, after I've wriggled into a skinny pair and buttoned them up, to sometimes, gleefully, see this:
I get home.
I tear my new magical jeans out of their bag like a kid on Christmas morning, ripping the tags off with my teeth while doing some serious lower body yoga to put my legs into the leg holes almost simultaneously so I can check 'em out with my favorite shoes. Oh the joy! The elation!
Only... I find that, somehow, someway, in the mirror at home I no longer look like a miniature screen siren or 16 year-old Russian with a butt that defies gravity. I look a little closer, in disbelief. Surely... no. That can't be me. I turn around to make sure there's no one behind me and that somehow, perhaps, I've lost my reflection so I'm actually looking at her, the insane lady in those jeans who has snuck into my bathroom, in all of her middle-aged, Fuptastic glory.
The horror sets in and...
I realize that... dear god
I look more like this:
How, mirrors of the world, can you be so flattering one moment and so cruel the next, like a bad grade school boyfriend?
How is it possible to look so wildly different in two bits of mirror wearing the SAME pants?
Maybe it's the thumping, bumping music that makes you feel like you're living out your very own Chic Flick in the store. So distracting yet, like, totally super fun! Yay! Cue Reese Witherspoon bouncing around...
Or the low lighting.
Or that all of your clothing comes home with you in banana-yellow bags.
Whatever it is, the scores stands at:
Mirror:1, Me: 0
Not for long, though. Not. For. Long.
Watch your back, mirror.