Today I officially entered the real of the plumbers. No education involved, no degrees, I accidentally showed my plumbers butt. It started with the trend of low riding jeans. I fought those jeans tooth and nail because I have what’s politely referred to as a “baby belly”. No, I’m not pregnant-but I was and after two children my stomach doesn’t hold the tautness of my youth. Gravity has created the pooch, the muffin top, the extra baggage that was called “Love Handles.” I’ve accepted my body for what it is, oh who am I kidding, I can’t afford the amount of plastic surgery it’d take to get it back. .

I am not a candidate for low rise jeans. I don’t want anything hanging over the sides of my pants so I stayed with, “The Granny Jeans”. “Granny Jeans” sit comfortably (not!) on the middle of your waist. The zipper is long enough to have a zip code, and if I really want to be comfortable then add the stretchy fabric. My friend dares me to try a pair of low rise jeans. Never take the dare of any friend who has a I’ve only had one child belly, they haven’t reached the level of gravity.

“You’ll love them, they are so comfortable.”

“But what about skin hanging over?”

“What?”

“Oh never mind. I’ll try them on then you buy the ice cream.” I try them on.

I am surprised. They are actually comfortable. The Granny Jeans do not give in the waist and don’t like the extra skin I support in my middle. When I take them off I have what looks like a botched C-section surgery scar running across my stomach from the fabric pressing against my skin. With the low rise, there isn’t any fabric to dig in my waist. I try to find the zipper and locate the tiny ½ inch three tooth thing. Why even put a zipper on jeans if it’s so small you can’t find it. I forget about moving into the Moo Moo stage of my life as I buy two pairs and go with a fashion trend.

I wear my new jeans proudly, feeling a little sassy at the freedom I feel. Sassy until I do what mothers eventually have to do, something that takes my sassiness and flushes it down the toilet. It’s so normal and innocent and changes sordidly in a split second. I bend over and pick up one of my children. As I bend over I enter the realm normally used by men with pipes under a kitchen sink. I show my flesh as the other mothers in my group gasp. “What?” I ask as I get up and my sideways smile disappears.