Low Rise Jeans

Oh, low rise jeans, you make me feel less woman. Your opposite intention, I imagine. Women across America, squeeze, jump, jiggle into you only to button you lower than what the game of Operation taught us was our waist. On thinner girls, jutting hipbones protrude above your denim lines, as if small mountain tops that peak in waifish confidence. Most of us though, find new body parts when we try you on. Skin and fat, as if fleeing from your very fibers, flop outward, sideways, upwards. Constantly women are making choices based on your demands. "Oh, I'll take that side," a girl offers at a restaurant to ensure her backside is exposed only to the wall and not the likely to be offended patrons. Tops of buttocks take their shape outside your unforgiving parameters, bringing the tops of thong underwear along for their clothing vacation. Young girls expose too much in you. You beg them to parade their sexuality too young, their hips unripe for such exposure. Older women pity themselves even more squeezed in your style. They're temporarily unrecognizable from 20somethings as they too grap you by your belt straps and yank upward, trying to gain just one more inch of coverage. But it's no use. Our methods of concealing our bodies are rendered useless when we've hopelessly devoted ourselves to you. You ask too much. Our hips just don't move that way. We are not Giselle. It's time for a break-up. We want to be grabbed by the waist, twisted around, made to feel lovely, gorgeous, slim and if need be, concealed. Yet you break us down every time. We want to fall in love again. This time, it won't be with you.