expensive jeans

i turned thirty last week. but that is not the most exciting thing that happened. much more importantly, i got my first ridiculously expensive jeans. i don't just say "designer jeans," because to some, designer jeans means you bought them at the gap instead of old navy. no, i'm talking great jeans, the kind that barely button around my waist but make my butt look magically little and adorable. ben gave me a pair of seven's for my birthday, and then i bought a pair of citizens for (of?) humanity. i've been openly coveting this level of jeans-goodness for years, but after having my son last spring, i determined not to invest in any until i reached my "goal size." well, i'm close enough. so the other day i put on my fan-freaking-tastic new jeans, my favorite very cool green and yellow pumas, and made my wonderful new haircut into the most adorable ponytail you've ever seen, and took my extremely hip self down to the new whole foods. i felt impossibly cool, strolling the aisles of organic gourmet goodness, sipping my nine-dollar bottle of water, until... my darling son had a complete meltdown at the make-your-own-almond-butter station and i had to get my new-and-improved ass out of there in a big hurry. which leads to me to my point: having kids ruins your coolness, no matter how perfect the jeans.