- The number one thing people fear is spiders.
- More people are afraid of heights than germs.
- A fear is only considered a phobia if it impedes your actions.
- Brontophobia is not the fear of brontosaurus (brontosauri?), but the fear of thunderstorms
- Phobias are considered curable. The cure? Exposure.
Well, this week I had to face one of my own phobias.
Deniphobia: n - the fear of shopping for denim, primarily exhibited in the search for jeans.
I H.A.T.E. shopping for jeans. I believe perfect jeans are much like the perfect man. If you have that magical encounter once, you're lucky. You look and feel taller and more beautiful. You run down the aisle with no hesitation.
But unlike men, that one pair of jeans wears out. And then there you are, shuffling past all the other shoppers searching for another pair of pants that you love enough to commit to. Or at least, won't hate as soon as you go home together, and aren't embarrassed to be seen in public with.
You try out a half-dozen styles in two sizes, and find that one pair that's almost right, almost. Maybe you just always wear shirts that cover your body above the knee. That's doable. Tunics are in, right? You slip them off, check the tag, and realize they cost almost as much as Dirk The Blue Impala. Twice.
Oh, the trials!
This is precisely why I've been shuffling around in jeans older than my niece, even though the frayed hems whisper about the likelihood I was raised in a barn whenever I walk. I have on occasion veered towards the denim section, and then my phobia kicks in and I retreat to accessories. Or lipstick.
Well, after years of delay, following my successful half marathon (yes, I'm still riding that high) I figured I could do just about anything. So, I sucked it up, or in at least, and hit the mall to find some new dungarees that, if they couldn't make me look long and lean and hip, at least didn't make my legs look shorter, my thighs look thicker, or my waist look muffin toppier. I took a friend for moral support and to help me distinguish between jeans that looked bad, and jeans that I thought looked bad. She was a great help, and I'm now the proud owner of three new pairs of jeans, and two old ones.
Am I cured?
Do I feel ready to try this again?
Not until I have to, and with three new pairs, I might make it a decade.
But, I do have jeans that I can leave the house in without worrying strangers will dump their change in my coffee cup.
I'm grateful for Banana Republic Factory Store for making jeans that don't hate women, for Lauren and her distinguishing eye for denim, for Mr. Strauss, even if his invention is the cause of much stress, and for the suffragettes, who long ago decided bustles and corsets were so last season, and donned trousers instead.