Well Slap My Smaller Thighs!

You may recall my recent whining about toddlers being germs on short, chubby legs. Well, it transpires, every virus has a silver lining!

My very own pair of short, chubby legs now fit into a pair of size ten jeans. A sight that hasn’t been seen since I was twelve years old and, even then, they were a ‘snug’ fit. It would seem the appetite suppressing qualities of your average cold are not to be sniffed at.

Naturally, an urgent shopping trip was in order to showcase my new assets before my bottom grew back. I could tell from my mother’s worried expressions that I might just fit into something from Top Shop so off I skipped to see how the perter half lived.

Making my way to the stumpy legged selection, I picked up some ‘skinny’ jeans. My child had given me the gift of smaller thighs (further to his gift of massive wobbly tummies) and this would finally be their moment.

Or not. The skinnies never reached my new thighs, or my knees. They became very un-cooperative round about my calves. Determined and stupid, I continued to heave in an upwardly direction. It wasn’t long before the denim noose around my ankles left me bouncing around the teeny changing room like a space hopper. I knew the ten year olds in the adjoining cubicles would recognise the delusional grunts of a middle aged flump, entangled in a pair of jeans not meant for legs the shape of pork chops.

Tired from all the jumping, I took a moment to lean, ponder my predicament and regain my strength. Did customers have to pay for jeans that they had to be cut out of? I started to regret the fact I hadn’t shaved my legs for a week and had opted for my ‘comfy’ knickers. That’s when I decided it was well worth another effort to heave in a downward direction.

I finally emerged from the changing room, twenty minutes after entry, my legs red raw under my trousers, my hair a fuzzy halo and my eyes wearing that look of alarm that only a woman ensnared by a pair of skinny jeans can understand.

“Any good for you?” asked the assistant who would never understand what I’d just been through.

“No thank you” I said, handing back the jeans that had held so much promise just half an hour before.

Despite my trauma, I pushed through and returned to the stumpy rack. There was no way I was leaving without something in a smaller size. I owed it to my bottom.

And that’s when I found them. Boy fit jeans. As soon as they negotiated their way past my footballer’s calves, I knew they were the ones.

As for the impending re-inflation of my bottom, I’m hoping a calorie controlled diet and big long sniffs of snotty totties will deflate it again.