Booty Call

How can a perfectly fine ass...

look so awful?
What is it about denim, spandex, and sweatshop labor that makes finding the right pair of jeans so difficult? It's a topic tackled by Oprah, countless websites, Saturday Night Live, and my friends.

Are good jeans an urban myth?

Is finding them an impossible task?

Not one to shy away from a challenge, I dragged Becky out shopping recently to find the perfect pair for my tiny tushie.

Easier said than done.

We went to The Promenade Shops at Briargate, a sort of upscale mall 'round these parts, to peruse their offerings. Banana Republic, Ann Taylor, and White House Black Market were out. Such selections made my derriere look like a half-eaten donut.

Then we hit Gloss - A Denim Bar.

Upon entering the posh boutique, dozens of denim delights made my head spin. Decisions, decisions. High or low pockets? Sequins or gemstones? And which style would make my butt look better - the kind that slinks down to show a thong or the kind that hugs hips and hides my junk in the trunk?

Becky and I needed an expert.

Elizabeth* suddenly appeared to make sense of it all.

She was a tiny little thing, no taller than 5'4", with long black hair and a rich Spanish (as in Europe, not Mexico) accent.

Elizabeth obviously knew her ass from a good pair of jeans.

She led Becky and me to the dressing area. We sipped beverages, gazed at ourselves in flattering mirrors, sat on velvet cushions, and shared with Elizabeth my deepest and darkest desire - to sport a badonkadonk that would make a black woman proud.

Elizabeth went to work.

She came back with a half-dozen options. These were not the Jordace or Gloria Vanderbilts of our youth. These premium pants had names like True Religion, Joe's Jeans and Paige. After taking twenty minutes to get into a pair of Gloss' finest, grunting like a porn star, I got up on the, righthandtoGod, *staging area* so Becky and a few professionals could assess the assets from all angles.

I sucked in with all my might and pulled up my shirt. Even bent over a few times. Which gave me a special thrill because I could see Focus on the Family's headquarters through the store window.

"Suck this, Dob-"

Then I saw the tag and choked on my organic refreshments. Size 27? An hour earlier I was a 2. What the f*ck was Gloss trying to pull?

Elizabeth explained something called "European sizes."

Then I saw the price and spit out my organic refreshments. $355? What the f*ck was Gloss trying to pull?

Elizabeth explained something called "credit cards."

"These are your babieeees," she cooed. "They are an investmeeent. You must love theeeem and care for theeeem. They will last foreeever. I promise youuuuu."

Good lord. It takes all my energy just to love and care for my real babies. The ones who might not appreciate "I would pay your college tuition but mommy wanted to look hot" talks.

And ummm, how does one properly love denim?

"You wash them by hand and let them dry naturally," Elizabeth patiently explained. "These are your babieeees."

I gotta admit, it was tempting. Expensive jeans feel better and my fanny, according to Becky, looked fabulous. Ultimately, we thanked Elizabeth and I promised to think about it. We're gonna hit a few stores in Denver and could possibly make it back to Gloss again. I don't think my work there is done.

Bending over in front of Focus while wearing $355 jeans was sorta fun.

The ultimate goal is to buy a pair that My Man would want to rip off anyway, right? Makes me think I should just walk around in my thong and save a buck or two.

But it is goddamn cold here.

And so the quest continues...