Free Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase by Jen Lancaster Page A
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Smyth can. I’d love to know how that bitch manages to get her hair so perfect every day. A lot of times I sit behind her on the bus and just stare at her head, trying to figure out her secret. Hot rollers? Aqua Net? The devil magic that comes from listening to Iron Maiden and Judas Priest? Rumor has it she gets up at four thirty every morning to get ready for school. 46 Whatever, it doesn’t matter because I look so Phoebe Cates right now.
Satisfied with my reflection, I snap the compact shut and a puff of Noxzema-scented air escapes as I attempt to wedge it back into my hip pocket.
Seriously, though? Even without verifying the current state of my hair, makeup, and wardrobe? I’m not being conceited when I say I look awesome.
How am I so sure?
Because I’m wearing the size-five Jordache jeans my friend Sissy Anderson gave me. You’re automatically hot when you wear size five; it’s, like, written in the Constitution or Vogue magazine or something. Plus, the jeans themselves are extra rad—they’re really dark blue and the denim is superthick and they’ve got a big panting horse embroidered all swirly on the back right pocket in white thread. They flatten my front and enhance my butt and they make my legs look totally long . . . even if they do accidentally cleave my girly parts into two denim hemispheres.
If Princess Diana wore jeans? I’m pretty sure these are the ones she’d choose.
The only thing is I suspect my Jordache are supposed to be a little baggy, yet I kind of fill up every available inch of space within them. When I take them off, my thighs are deeply indented where the seams hit and sometimes I need to punch my legs to regain feeling in them. I’m often forced to lie on the floor and use a rat-tail comb to properly zip them. 47 Also, there was that one time in world history class when I almost blacked out after sneezing. But, what ever . . . if I can stuff myself into them, then I am a size five and thus can’t not look good. These jeans are like that old joke: What do you call the guy who graduates last in his class in medical school? Doctor . A size five is a size five, no matter how snug. So there.
You know what? These jeans are totally lucky, too. I was wearing them when Kyle Eckert ( quel stud!) said hi to me for the first time in typing class and also when my nemesis Justine Moore 48 got busted for smoking in the girls’ bathroom during lunch. C’est magnifique!
Not only are my Jordache a completely excellent brand, I got them for free. While on the bus to a speech meet last fall, I complained to Sissy that my cheap-o-rama parents think designer jeans are a waste of funds. My dad’s always babbling on about stupid investments and stocks and bondage and how he doesn’t want to piss away his hard-earned money on silly status symbols like a pair of Calvin Kleins. Hey says he’d rather send money to the IRA.
I so don’t get it.
Why would he support those guys who are always bombing London?
Sympathetic to my plight, Sissy generously offered up her prized pair of Jordache, telling me they hadn’t fit her since she quit smoking.
What she neglected to mention was she stopped smoking because she was pregnant. And all that semester I’d wondered why her weight centralized itself into a beach ball on her midsection. My best friend Carol suspected something was up, but I was totally taken by surprise. I just assumed all those times Sissy wanted to go to McDonald’s after school meant she was finally over her eating disorder. So maybe these jeans are only good luck for me? 49
“If you girls were any hotter, you’d melt the film,” Mike tells us.
I beam with quiet confidence and reply, “Mais oui!” and Robyn squeals, “Oh, my God, you’re totally scamming on us!” Mike pinches me and I give him a playful shove as we all proceed down the hall.
We’re currently in search of the perfect bank of lockers to climb so Mike can photograph us on top of them for our high school
Satisfied with my reflection, I snap the compact shut and a puff of Noxzema-scented air escapes as I attempt to wedge it back into my hip pocket.
Seriously, though? Even without verifying the current state of my hair, makeup, and wardrobe? I’m not being conceited when I say I look awesome.
How am I so sure?
Because I’m wearing the size-five Jordache jeans my friend Sissy Anderson gave me. You’re automatically hot when you wear size five; it’s, like, written in the Constitution or Vogue magazine or something. Plus, the jeans themselves are extra rad—they’re really dark blue and the denim is superthick and they’ve got a big panting horse embroidered all swirly on the back right pocket in white thread. They flatten my front and enhance my butt and they make my legs look totally long . . . even if they do accidentally cleave my girly parts into two denim hemispheres.
If Princess Diana wore jeans? I’m pretty sure these are the ones she’d choose.
The only thing is I suspect my Jordache are supposed to be a little baggy, yet I kind of fill up every available inch of space within them. When I take them off, my thighs are deeply indented where the seams hit and sometimes I need to punch my legs to regain feeling in them. I’m often forced to lie on the floor and use a rat-tail comb to properly zip them. 47 Also, there was that one time in world history class when I almost blacked out after sneezing. But, what ever . . . if I can stuff myself into them, then I am a size five and thus can’t not look good. These jeans are like that old joke: What do you call the guy who graduates last in his class in medical school? Doctor . A size five is a size five, no matter how snug. So there.
You know what? These jeans are totally lucky, too. I was wearing them when Kyle Eckert ( quel stud!) said hi to me for the first time in typing class and also when my nemesis Justine Moore 48 got busted for smoking in the girls’ bathroom during lunch. C’est magnifique!
Not only are my Jordache a completely excellent brand, I got them for free. While on the bus to a speech meet last fall, I complained to Sissy that my cheap-o-rama parents think designer jeans are a waste of funds. My dad’s always babbling on about stupid investments and stocks and bondage and how he doesn’t want to piss away his hard-earned money on silly status symbols like a pair of Calvin Kleins. Hey says he’d rather send money to the IRA.
I so don’t get it.
Why would he support those guys who are always bombing London?
Sympathetic to my plight, Sissy generously offered up her prized pair of Jordache, telling me they hadn’t fit her since she quit smoking.
What she neglected to mention was she stopped smoking because she was pregnant. And all that semester I’d wondered why her weight centralized itself into a beach ball on her midsection. My best friend Carol suspected something was up, but I was totally taken by surprise. I just assumed all those times Sissy wanted to go to McDonald’s after school meant she was finally over her eating disorder. So maybe these jeans are only good luck for me? 49
“If you girls were any hotter, you’d melt the film,” Mike tells us.
I beam with quiet confidence and reply, “Mais oui!” and Robyn squeals, “Oh, my God, you’re totally scamming on us!” Mike pinches me and I give him a playful shove as we all proceed down the hall.
We’re currently in search of the perfect bank of lockers to climb so Mike can photograph us on top of them for our high school
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