Here’s the deal: I’ve got a size 8 waist and hips, slightly longish legs & the world’s longest torso and I need pants. And I’m having a hard time finding a brand of jeans that’s really targeting my type and producing a comfortable fit jean with a 35 inch inseam and about a ten inch rise. I need pants that would potentially come up to another woman’s boobs while simultaneously swallowing her feet, but have a 29 inch waist. How is that not a thing?
I think I’ve discovered an untapped demo in the world of women’s jeans. I may start my own company that makes long, skinny, granny-waisted jeans. It will be hugely successful, I’m sure.
Today, I am thirty years old.
I have a job. My bills are paid on time. I can afford to go to the doctor when I need to. I have a little family: my husband and our dog. We live in a little apartment. We visit family on some weekends and holidays. I have a nephew who sends me videos of himself singing for my birthday and a niece who looks just like me. My friends love me, and I love them.
I’ve made a life for myself that brings me joy every single day. And I’m only thirty.
That’s something to hang my hat on, that is. I may not go down in history books, but I get to have happiness every day. Every. Day.
Me and my little life, we’re doing just fine. We’re doing great.
(Dogs don’t understand “family selfies.”)
Saturday night I cried because my dog tried to eat my caterpillar friend.
I will be 30 years old in 3 days. I don’t think I’m going to “grow out” of crying over animals. Sorry, adults in my life.